


Down to Earth with a Bang

by YvesAdele



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992), Supernatural, Supernatural AU
Genre: Alternate Universe, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Cop AU, Crime, Crime mystery, Cults, Dean and Cas are federal agents, Dean is lost, Demons, Destiel - Freeform, Drama, FBI, FBI AU, Feelings, Friendship, Gore, Investigation, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Other, Profound Bond, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Vampires, based on the trailer, but i promise it's a romcom, castiel finds him, casxdean, dick roman - Freeform, down to earth, down to earth with a bang, eventually, hold on to your seats boys, it's gonna seem like the far and distant future, not the main theme but it's there, romcom, romcom murder mystery, the best kind, there is some gore, there's gonna be some buffyverse too, with a bang
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-01-16 13:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12344091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YvesAdele/pseuds/YvesAdele
Summary: Nothing like starting off the Holidays with a murder mystery! Agent Dean Winchester and his brand new (Rookie) partner, Castiel Stills, must solve the murder of Gary Frieleng. Castiel believes the murder to be the work of demons, but as they delve into the case, more and more evidence turns up to suggest that this thing goes way deeper than either of them could have imagined, and now it's up to Agents Winchester and Stills to save the day - and not kill each other in the process.





	1. All Work and No Play Makes Dean a Dick

**Chapter One: “All work and no play makes Dean a Dick.”**

 

On a beautiful, quiet Saturday, the logical thing to do is to sleep in. Friday night should be a long party that lasts until the sun peeks its bastard head over the distant horizon. The next ten-to-twelve hours should be spent sleeping, followed by some possible vomiting and definitely the consumption of water and greasy food. Doctors recommend another six-to-eight hours of sleep following that. Saturdays should certainly not be spent in a cheap suit, crawling around in the gutters of a backwater, Bible-Belt wasteland. There most definitely should not be things in those gutters with the intention of killing any and all that invade their territory, and one should absolutely not be in said gutters hunting those things sporting a sprained pinky, a black eye, and naught for defense save a small, silver chiv. 

Not only did Dean Winchester’s Saturday consist entirely of things it indubitably should not, but it consisted of all of these things before the hour of 10AM and without a single ounce of caffeine in his system. As he began the two-hour drive back to Kansas City with a (far-as-he-could-tell) dead  body in tow, Dean huffed an exhausted sigh of exasperation.

_ Nobody deserves this _ , he thought. Melancholy music drifted annoyingly from the car stereo. Dean cursed it for not having a tape deck. 

He was forced to drive a crappy, company sudan while his own vehicle was undergoing maintenance. Chief Singer had pointed out that the repairs would go much faster if he just “put the damn thing in the shop.”

Dean’s response had been, “Hell no! Nobody is putting their hands on my Baby but me.” And he insisted that all the work be done by himself. 

“You love that piece of junk more than you’ve ever loved me,” his brother, Sam, occasionally teased. Dean’s 1967 Chevrolet Impala really was his most prized possession. It had been the only constant in his fucked-up world, and he didn’t plan on letting anyone ruin that for him.Unfortunately, that really did mean a longer wait to drive his own car again. That was fine. Dean had known it would be a long-term project, so for the moment he listened to Christian Radio, finding strength in the fact that it was only temporary. 

An unexpected pothole jarred Dean nearly out of his seat, which reminded him to check the clock; in about twenty minutes, he was going to have to stop and make sure that the thing in the trunk was staying dead. He sighed. This was going to be a long drive.

 

\-----

 

Shoulders tight, back straight, head tilted slightly forward, Castiel stepped off of the elevator that had just reached his level. He gave a long, sweeping look at the corridor ahead of him. A white ceiling overshadowed bare, white walls, which met with a dull floor of gray and black tiles. Some red floor moulding looked like it was hastily thrown on to add a touch of color. He wasn’t really sure what he expected an FBI field office to look like. Perhaps, he thought, a huge, open room with little cubicles for everyone to hide behind, surrounded by looming glass that allowed sunshine to bathe the good office workers in its rays. Secretaries would bustle from cubicle to cubicle, gofers stopping by the offices of important figures to bring them their coffee while they chatted with coworkers, and everyone would mock the six guys who were actually hunched over their desks, typing away, hard at work.

Instead, he was faced with ten-foot-wide concrete hall of depression. Fluorescent lights flickered, gloomily, overhead. Heels and casual dress shoes pattered down the way. The people were a blur, and their clothing blended with the building, grays and blacks and whites, now pushing past him, some with uneasy stares and glances, to catch the elevator before the doors  _ ding! _ ed closed.

Castiel stepped aside to let the hurried people past. He straightened the lapels of his (what now seemed too casual) trench coat, and he looked at the notebook clutched in his hand.

 

_ Office 427 _

_ SC Walker and DC Singer _

_ 10:45 AM _

 

He hadn’t really needed to write it down. Castiel knew those numbers and names by heart. He’d studied them daily since receiving them three weeks prior to arriving in Kansas City. It was two weeks before he graduated, so he probably could have used the brainpower elsewhere, but this day was a huge one for Castiel. He was going to be given his first assignment that morning. Sectional Chief Gordon Walker and District Chief Robert Singer would evaluate him, find the person best suited to “break him in” (as Castiel heard was done to rookies) during his probationary period, and that was it: Castiel was taking his very first stride toward becoming a real-life field agent.

Gabriel teased Castiel when he first mentioned joining the FBI. “Seriously, Cassy? You want to investigate stuff on Earth? With humans?” He gave a good natured laugh with an uncertain smile, but he eventually warmed up to the idea. In fact, hardly a month after Castiel suggested it, Gabriel actually reassigned him to take care of some business on the ground. They’d received some intel that Castiel didn’t have security clearance to hear, and he was sent to Quantico nearly a week later.

Four years later, Castiel stood at the end of an eerie hallway, willing his feet to carry him. He was early.

It was only 10:15. He had no idea if it was bad form to show up to an evaluation half an hour early. He wasn’t sure if it would look like he made an effort or if it would look like he hadn’t paid attention when being given instructions. He didn’t really mind being perceived as eager. However, he was well aware that showing up at the wrong time could demonstrate an inability to comply with orders, and he did not want that at all.

Castiel stood for the next few minutes with his back against the wall. He looked at his paper for a few moments, then up at the bustling employees, then again at his notes. With a final glance at his watch, he finally decided to continue his trek down the hall toward office number 427. He could at least locate the room, possibly talk to a bookkeeper or secretary, and then wait outside.

 

\-----

 

Dean let out a moan of frustration when the gas light came on and the dashboard gave a polite  _ ping! _ He had just made it through St. Joseph, Missouri, which meant that he was going to have to stop for gas, which meant that he would be paying for it out-of-pocket. Sure, he would be reimbursed,  but that wouldn’t be until the Friday two weeks into the future.

“ _ Fuel efficient _ my ass,” he muttered, slamming the driver’s side door. He stopped at a gas station/truck stop just a mile from the highway. Its vibe kind of said  _ stay too long and your death will not be by monster but by redneck _ .

He hastily popped open the gas cover and screwed off the cap, tipping the nozzle into the tank and selecting the cheapest fuel. The dealer had explicitly instructed him to only put premium fuel in the tank. Dean had agreed, but that was before he knew that the car’s weak 15-gallon tank wouldn’t last him the journey home. There was no way he was paying any $4/gallon to get him seventy more miles. He didn’t have time for picky preppy cars.

After topping off, Dean replaced the gas cap and slammed the cover shut. He gave the trunk a good thump with his fist, muttering, “Still dead in there?” 

He scoured the convenience store for a Slim-Jim before he climbed back into the driver’s seat and headed south again.

Fortunately, the music selection became slightly wider as he neared the city, and he put a little bit of food in his stomach, alleviating some of his distress.

 

\-----

 

At the front of the Sectional Chief’s office was a huge, oak desk. It was modestly adorned with a single wilting flower in a glass vase, a small jar of assorted marbles, and a framed award facing the door. On the other side of the desk was a bulky desktop computer, and behind that computer was an attractive girl with red hair and bright eyes.

She smiled at Castiel when he walked in. “Good morning, sir!” She said. Her tone was chipper. Castiel noted the coffee mug clutched tightly in her right hand. “How can I help you today?”

“My name is Castiel, I, uh...” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a state-issued identification card. “I’m here for Chief Singer; I’m the new Probationary Agent.”

“Oh! Hi, Castiel.” She stood from behind the desk and offered a hand. “Charlene Bradbury. You can call me Charlie,” she shrugged, “everybody does. Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll tell Mister Singer you’re here? He isn’t expecting you for another twenty minutes, right?”

Castiel nodded, accepting the handshake and suppressing a look of mild surprise; she was very friendly. He knew there was really nothing to be ashamed of, showing up to an appointment early. Still, a flush crept over his face when he sat down and Charlie disappeared with a quick knock into the adjoining room.

The walls were thin. He could hear Charlie speaking quietly, then was surprised by a gruff man’s voice saying, “Here? Already? Dadgum greenies. Too damn eager to get into the field if you ask me.” Then a quieter something, muffled, about “twenty minutes” and “Walker ain’t here yet,” and then a, “Thanks, Charlie.”

Castiel pretended not to have been eavesdropping when the secretary returned. She hefted a sigh, smile still plastered on her lips. “Thanks for waiting, Castiel. The Sectional Chief isn’t here, yet, so you’ll have to wait just a bit longer. Can I get you anything in the meantime?”

He shook his head. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.”

Charlie made an acknowledging gesture, and she sat again at her desk. 

Cas occupied himself by studying the tiles on the opposite wall. They were red and black and white. Below the tiles was a brown wall border, and beneath that a white wallpaper speckled with a stucco pattern. A potted plant sat in the far corner of the room. After looking at it a moment, Cas realized it wasn’t a real plant. He struggled to understand the purpose of artificial botany. Fake flowers he could sort of see a reason for; they livened up a room, sometimes, and were occasionally quite pretty. This wasn’t a plant with flowers on it, though. It was a swampy, green thing, with long fronds that drooped to the floor. 

“So, you’re an angel, huh?” Charlie asked.

Startled, Castiel’s attention snapped back to her. He had been asked that question and questions like it before, but never in a way that sounded like a genuine inquiry. He was used to hearing a bit of an accusing tone behind the words.

Charlie suddenly looked mortified. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to--I mean…”

“No,” Castiel interrupted, “don’t apologize. Your curiosity is only natural. Yes, I am.”

“What made you decide to join the FBI?” she inquired, leaning with her elbows on the desk.

“A number of things factored into my decision,” he said. “Ultimately, however, it was my brother’s decision. There are matters here into which he needed more insight.”

“Why not just ask Gadreel?” Charlie suggested. “Why spend all that time sending someone else to school and through qualifying and all that? Doesn’t that take a long time?”

Castiel nodded, slowly. “It does take some time,” he agreed, “but it is a...sensitive matter. Gadreel is not...generally tasked with these things.”

“Oh.” Charlie cast her eyes down to look at her beverage. “I didn’t know.”

“I don’t suppose Gadreel mentioned why he joined the FBI.”

Charlie gave another little shrug. “Nah. He’s kind of secretive. Then again, I can’t really blame him. Some of the field agents can be a little…” She trailed off, then cleared her throat. 

Castiel understood her meaning. If his experience at the college from which he’d just graduated was any indication, Gadreel probably wasn’t held in the highest regard amongst his peers.

“Anyway!” Charlie sighed, and her breath seemed to blow away the tension in the air. “I’m looking forward to seeing you around. You seem like a pretty decent guy.”

Unsure of how to respond, Castiel just said, “Thank you.”

 

\-----

 

It was his day off. Why did rich people always have to get into trouble on Saturdays? Couldn’t they just, for once, leave it until a work day?

Sam Winchester marched with purpose through the Jackson County Jail, briefcase in hand.

“Dammit, Ruby!” he exclaimed upon coming face-to-face with the offending client. “Can’t you keep your hand in your own pocket for one weekend?”

“Sorry,” said the bashful brunette from the opposite side of the plexiglass. “Old habits, you know.”

“Well, your ‘old habits’ are interfering with my personal ones.” He flipped open his briefcase. “I’m posting bail for you, but I swear to God that I will not back you up if you do this to me again. I have a cocktail party tonight, do you understand? My brother is going to be there. I see him, like, once a month. Now I’m gonna be doing paperwork until Cinderella’s carriage turns back into a pumpkin before I can relax.”

“C’mon, Sam,” she cooed, “You know I’d never hurt you on purpose.”

A few conversations later and the two of them were walking through the front doors toward a slightly-busy back road. Sam strode toward his vehicle, but he paused to put an arm out in front of Ruby.

“Uh-uh, no way,” he growled. “I called you a cab; you can wait here. If Dean finds out I did this for you…” He shook his head.

“What? You mean you never told him about all the times you’ve come to ‘rescue’ me?” She grabbed on to his outstretched arm and gave him her sweetest smile. “What would I do without you, Sammy?”

He pulled away from her and walked to the other side of his car. “Probably have cleaned up your act.”

She pouted. “So, I’ll see you around?”

He pointed, wearing a scolding expression. “No! Behave!”

\-----

 

“I told you not to kill it.” Jo Harvelle seemed genuinely offended when Dean plopped a huge body bag onto her desk.

He made a frustrated face, palms skyward. “Oh, sorry for defending myself.”

She unzipped the bag, gave the body a quick examination, and glared up at him. “You defended yourself eight times with a silver knife?”

“In the sewer, in the dark,” he added.

Jo huffed in irritation, hanging her head. “Dean, if the Chief gets wind that you did this again…”

“He won’t.”

She looked at him with a solemn expression. “You are a better agent than this, Winchester. I expect more from you. You are more than capable of detaining all manner of creatures alive and well.”

He fidgeted. “They’re easier to manage if they can’t talk back.”

“Dean. I’ve seen you do it.”

There was a moment of silence. Dean took a step forward to peer into the bag, before looking back up at Jo. “Yeah?” His tone was biting. “Well that was then.”

With a huff, he spun around and marched out of the dark office.

 

\-----

 

The interview was going well. Castiel’s only impression was that Robert Singer and Gordon Walker liked him. In turn, they each expressed pleasant surprise at his marks and achievements; he wasn’t sure why. Castiel himself was a bit shocked to learn that anyone could become an agent with a score lower than 100% on a test required to qualify.

“I guess the big question here, Castiel,” Walker closed the file in his hands and set it down on his desk, laying his hands atop it. “Is this: Do you think you’re ready to get out there on the front line?”

It took Castiel a moment to understand the question, so he paused, and then he nodded. “Yes. I am ready.”

Walker drummed the file beneath his hands. “Good! If you’ll step back into the outer office so that the Chief and I can determine which agent would be best suited to you at this time, please.”

Cas nodded and stood, extending his hand to respectfully offer a handshake to the gentlemen who were now his superiors. 

He didn’t have a long wait. It was maybe two minutes before the chiefs stepped through Singer’s office door. Walker handed him a small, black leather wallet. “Congratulations, Agent Castiel,” he said, “Welcome to Kansas City. We’re pairing you up with Winchester. He’ll be here for his debriefing any minute. You can meet--”

“Actually, I’d like to get him familiar with HQ before we start introducing him to...people.” Singer mumbled the last part with an uncertain look at Walker.

The Section Chief balked momentarily, before nodding. “Right. Go ahead, then!” He nodded to the both of them. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish. I’d like to enjoy myself without burden at the shindig. Again, pleasure to meet you, Castiel.”

“Shindig?” Castiel inquired, watching the man leave.

Singer grumbled incoherently, then said, “Bureau’s throwing some fancy cocktail dress party. Excuse for the suits to get drunk while they’re in town auditing, if you ask me.” He sighed and turned, slightly. “Charlie?”

Charlie’s attention snapped from her computer screen. “Yes? Sir?”

“Would you mind showing Castiel around? I gotta be here when Winchester gets in.”

“Yes sir!” She stood and picked up her coffee cup. “I needed some fresh coffee, anyway! Come on, Cas. I’ll show ya the ropes.” She smiled and headed toward the door, short skirt clinging tightly to her legs as she walked.

Singer gave him a pat on the shoulder, and Castiel took a deep breath before following the receptionist back into the gloomy hallway.

 

\-----

 

“ _ No way. _ ” Dean’s response to the word ‘partner’ came out of his mouth before Bobby could even finish his sentence.

The chief exhaled slowly, reigning in his temper. “You’ve been on your own for months, Dean. Don’t you think it’s time to--”

“Absolutely not! I work better on my own. Thanks, though.” In one motion, he plopped into a chair and slammed his report on to Singer’s desk. “Here’s what happened in St. Peter’s.”

“How do you already have your report typed up?” Bobby Singer’s question was not only suspicious, but accusing.

Dean shrugged. “No biggie, standard snag n’ bag.”

“Did you already report to Harvelle?”

“Ye-p.” Dean popped the ‘p,’ refusing to make eye contact and bouncing his leg, trying to convey his impatience to leave the room.

“Winchester, is she going to bring me bad news?”

“Shouldn’t,” he shrugged, “but I guess that’s a matter of interpretation.”

Singer reluctantly slid the file toward himself and flipped it open.

“Can I go?” Dean asked.

“No.” The chief looked up and gave his agent a stern stare. “His name is Castiel. You’re going to meet him at the party tonight. You’re gonna be cordial and you’re gonna make him feel welcome, got that?”

“Yeah, yeah, play  nice with the new kid, I got it.”

“Dean.”

“Understood! Yes. Yes, sir.”

 

\-----

 

By the time 4:00 rolled around, Sam was actually very nearly finished with the day’s paperwork. The desk in his home office was completely covered in papers, some large with typed print, some small and ripped with notes scribbled in near-illegible hand. Sam leaned back in a leather seat, taking a moment to crack his neck and stare out the window before him. The small expanse of grass between his home and the back road behind his house was brown and patchy. The winter had been a particularly dry, cold one, and Sam had never been much for yard-upkeep, so his lawn was struggling. It looked so ugly against the neighbor’s vibrant, green grass. 

A vibration on Sam’s desk alerted him to a phone call from his brother. He picked up the phone and held it for a moment, staring with gritted teeth at the caller ID, before answering. “It couldn’t wait until tonight?”

“Sorry, man. Just need to vent a little. I’ll make it short, I promise.”

Sam sighed and turned slightly in his chair to lean his elbow on the desk. “They gave you a partner, didn’t they.” 

“How’d you know?”

“Because literally the only reason you ever call me is to bitch about how much you hate the new guy.”

“He’s an angel.”

Sam quirked an eyebrow. “Really? Huh. I thought that guy already had a partner?”

Dean laughed. “No, this guy’s a rookie. Fresh from Quantico.”

“Oh, man. What’s he like?”

“Dunno, haven’t met him yet.”

“Why not?”

“I bet Singer wants me to have a drink before I do. Whatever. Can you believe that? They put me with a fucking angel rookie.”

“Dean, keep it down,” Sam hushed. 

“Whatever, Sam, you know I’m not racist.”

“Yeah, I know that, but the entire FBI doesn’t know that, so how about you don’t say anything that could get you fired, okay?”

“Sure. Anyway, you coming tonight?”

“You bet! Had me at ‘open bar.’”

“You gonna bring a date?”

“Are  _ you _ ?”

Dean chuckled. “Alright, I’ll see ya tonight, little brother.”

“See ya, Dean.” Ending the call, Sam looked at the probably-hour’s worth of paperwork left before him. He sighed and scooped it all into one, neat stack and set it atop his briefcase. It could wait until tomorrow; he had a party to attend.


	2. When the wine is in, so is Sam."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the gang! Dean and Cas meet for the first time. Dean's not great at first impressions, don't judge him.

**Chapter Two: “When the wine is in, so is Sam.”**

 

Downtown Kansas City wasn’t a place that Dean liked to be, at all, ever, for any reason, period. It was crowded and smelled a little bit like sewage sometimes, and the damn crosswalks emitted a noisy “ _ WAIT!”  _ when the button was pressed, and some pedestrians really liked pushing that button over and over until Dean had the urge to break the traffic light pole.

When he finally arrived at the party, Dean was greeted by a brief side-hug from his brother, followed by a “Nice of you to join us, Agent Winchester.” from Singer.

“Parking was a nightmare,” Dean offered, gratefully accepting the beer that Sam offered.

“You know there’s valet parking, right?” Sam asked with a squint of his eyes.

“You kidding? Trust a rental car to some 18-year-old who expects to be tipped for adding dings - dings that I’m gonna have to pay for - to a vehicle that I hate? I don’t think so.” He took a long drink from the bottle and then smacked his lips.

Sam sighed. “I don’t suppose you paid for parking?”

“Nope. I parked at the Denny’s on Broadway.”

“Dean, that’s like six blocks.”

Dean held up his left hand to signify the number five, while his right lifted the drink again to his lips.

“You walked five blocks in a suit and dress shoes.”  
Bobby grunted a little laugh.

Dean nodded and smirked. “Hell of a lot cheaper than a new paint job.” He cleared his throat and shifted on his feet, looking around the reception hall. The bureau had really gone all-out; the place was adorned from the ceiling to the floor with black-and-orange crepe papers and some sort of paper-mache-bone chains. On the opposite side of the room, barely visible beyond the crowd, a horribly hideous ice sculpture of Edgar J. Hoover was placed atop a splotchy red tablecloth and surrounded by what looked like trays of cheese, crackers, veggies, and other snacky refreshments. 

“I know where I’m supposed to be.” He gave Sam a pat on the shoulder. “I missed dinner!”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” the chief chimed in. “Someone I want you to meet.”

Dean pursed his lips and gave a stiff nod. “Right. I’ll be by the li’l smokies.” He took off before he could be directed in any way other than the refreshment table.

When he arrived at his destination, Becky Rosen from the IT department was also there, practically guarding the cheeses. When Dean spotted her, his first instinct was to turn tail, but his stomach rumbled in objection, so he trekked on.

“Hi, Dean,” Becky called before he even reached the table.

“Hey,” Dean said, shortly. He took a toothpick out of the decorative cup on the table and stabbed a little sausage with it, gingerly reaching past the girl to get a square of cheddar.

“How is everything?” She asked. She clutched in one hand a fruity, yellow drink, and with her free hand she casually stirred.

Dean winced and quickly ate what he had. Becky’s voice was shrill and eager, and it felt a little bit like someone was poking his eardrum when she spoke.

“Everything’s fine,” Dean said, mouth full.

She bit her lip and looked into her glass. “Did your brother make it tonight?”

Dean glanced across the room; Sam wasn’t where he’d left him. A quick sweep was all it took to find Sam at the makeshift bar: a folding table manned by two servers in front of several racks of wine, beer, and spirits. He had a fresh glass of champagne in his hand and was talking to a young field agent. Her name was Moore, if Dean’s memory served.

Dean glanced at Becky, who was looking way too expectant. He grinned and pointed. “Yeah, he’s over at the bar, chatting up some blonde. You should go say hi.”

Becky’s smile widened. “Thanks, Dean!”

 

\-----

 

Castiel had been unsure about attending the evening festivities. He wasn’t entirely certain that a cocktail party was an appropriate place to become acquainted with someone he’d be working closely with, but maybe a less formal setting than the office would put his partner’s mind at ease about being paired with him. 

Charlie spotted him from across the room and waved. She was wearing a cheerful smile and a red dress that looked very expensive. As she approached him, Castiel thought she must have been anticipating this event for quite some time. Her hair was arranged neatly at the base of her skull, and the front had almost no flyaways. The shoes she wore seemed to slightly impair her ability to walk, but he supposed they did make her legs look longer, which was an effect that some woman desired from clothing. She was much more put-together here than she had been earlier that day in Chief Singer’s office.

“Cas!” She greeted. “Hi! You made it!”

He nodded, hands clasped in front of him. “As did you, I see.”

Charlie giggled a little, clutching a small handbag that matched the color of her dress. “You look like you’re having...fun.” She said the last word a little sarcastically. “Have you talked to anybody yet?”

“You are the first person to approach me,” he replied. “I wouldn’t know where to begin otherwise.”

“Just mingle!” She offered. “I’m going to get something to drink. You should come with me!”

“Thank you, but I don’t drink. Anything.”

“Neither do I, not really. I mean, I drink liquids, obviously. I love coffee, and I mean we all need water, but I never really drink alcohol. Last time I got drunk...” She shrugged, taking him by the arm. “I meant you should come with me for the company.”

“Oh,” Castiel nodded again, curtly. “Alright.” He followed her through the crowd of people to a small serving table. The crowd grew denser in this part of the room,  _ most likely due to the alcoholic beverages being free _ , Castiel thought.

They came upon a young, brown-haired woman deliberately blocking their path, holding a beer in one hand and a champagne in the other. “Charlie!” She exclaimed.

“Susan!” Charlie responded with equal enthusiasm. “Wow, I didn’t expect to see you here! How are you?”

Castiel looked at the redhead beside him when the pressure on his arm intensified. She was definitely expecting to see this Susan woman here, possibly even anticipating it. She must have some reason for lying.

“It’s so great to see you after all this time!” She offered Charlie an awkward hug, squeezing her back with her wrists. “Sorry, I’m waiting for Victor to come back and take this sweaty bottle from me.”

“Oh, you’re his date tonight?” Charlie shifted a little when she spoke.

“Yeah, he uh, he hit me up last week and asked if I’d like to come. ‘Why not,’ I said, ‘be great to see some old buddies from the bureau!’ So what’s up, is this your plus one?”

Charlie’s laugh was nervous. “Yeah, this is Cas,” she explained. “He just got here from Quantico this morning.” She spoke as if her words should have strong impact.

“Wow!” Susan raised her eyebrows. “You work fast, Charlie! Way to go!”

A man appeared by Susan’s side and wrapped his arm around her waist, taking the beer from her hand. “Thank you,” he said. “Hi, Charlie!”

“Agent Henricksen, hi! This is Castiel. He just got here this morning.”

“Nice to meet you, man.” Henricksen removed himself from Susan for a moment to extend for a handshake, which Cas accepted. “Good to have you on the team.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” Castiel responded. “Thank you.”

“We were just on our way to get something to drink,” Charlie piped up. “But uh, enjoy the party! It was really great seeing you again, Susan.” She gave a passing smile to Susan’s date, squeezing Castiel’s arm tightly now, and circled around them to the liquor table. Her face was flushed.

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “Are you alright?”

“I’m sorry I did that to you,” Charlie whispered. “Excuse me, can I get a mojito?” Her question was in a raised voice, but then she reverted to a whisper. “I didn’t mean to bump into her yet, I wasn’t...uh, prepared.”

“You did mean to bump into her?” Castiel inferred.

“Yeah. Well, sort of. I was kind of hoping...when Victor told me he would be bringing her here tonight I kinda freaked out and spent too much money on a new dress, and now that she’s actually here in person I don’t know if I can talk to her, you know?”

Cas narrowed his eyes. “Do you have...feelings for this woman?”

Charlie blushed. “Well, yeah, I guess you could say that.”

A server stepped up to them. “ID, miss?”

Charlie glared at him. “Seriously? I’m twenty-nine.” When he just stared, she huffed and released Castiel’s arm to zip open her clutch. “Sorry. I appreciate you doing your job properly.” She handed him an identification card. He studied it momentarily before nodding and handing it back. 

“What did you say you wanted?”

“A mojito.” She paused. “Can you make it a double?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, only supposed to give you one drink per hour.”

“Dammit,” Charlie muttered. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Why are you so eager to impress this woman?” Castiel asked, once Charlie turned back to him.

“I don’t know,” Charlie sighed. “I always kind of liked her, and I was a little upset when she retired because I really thought we had something, you know? Like a connection or...something.” She shrugged. “It’s probably stupid.”

Castiel sighed a little. “It is possible that you perceived what you wanted to rather than an actual...connection.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of!” She nearly whined the words. “I was gonna try and figure it out tonight, make my move sort of thing, you know?” She pouted. “I don’t know if I’m brave enough to, though.”

With a brief glance at his surroundings, Cas took a moment to decide what to say next. He did not wish to dishearten someone who had been nothing but kind to him since his arrival, but he sincerely doubted that Susan would be interested in Charlie. Nothing about her body language when they encountered each other suggested sexual desire or arousal, which would have been more difficult to gauge if she didn’t respond with interest to the male who approached her moments later. She was definitely interested in him.

“If you would like,” Castiel finally said, “I could speak to her on your behalf and inquire as to whether she also felt something for you.”

Charlie looked mortified. “No! You can’t do that. Thank you for the offer, Cas, but please don’t ever repeat any of this to Susan at any time for any reason.”

Castiel had heard many times of unrequited love in stories, films, classic fairy tales, and the like, but this was the first time in all his years among humans that he had ever actually seen it, up-close in-person.

“There you are, Castiel,” The voice belonged to Chief Singer. “Glad I finally found you!” He acknowledged Charlie with a smile and a nod. “There’s somebody I’d like for you to meet.”

Charlie accepted her drink from the server, who winked when she took it. She raised it immediately to her lips. Her eyes popped open a little bit, and she looked at the bartender. “Thank you very much,” she read his nametag, “Stan.”

He nodded and turned to the next person ordering.

“Will you be alright?” Cas asked. 

Charlie was consuming her beverage far too quickly. She nodded and gave him a thumbs-up, still holding her clutch with her fingers.

“Glad to see you’re making friends.” Singer laughed.

 

\-----

 

Sam knew that voice. He knew it from years of tutoring, followed immediately by years of dodging and avoiding and pretending not to notice when the voice’s owner was standing ten feet away with her back turned.

_ Becky Rosen _ . 

This was absolutely not a good time. He had finally caught the attention of Jessica Moore, the only FBI agent he ever really wanted to talk to. He was finding that she was exactly as intelligent as people said, and she was even prettier up close. She stood in front of him now, a black dress tightly hugging her generous hips, blond hair pulled tight and high on her head. Even in heels, she was still about a foot shorter than him, but damn if she wasn’t the most beautifully intimidating woman Sam had ever had the absolute pleasure to converse with, and it was all about to fall apart because of Becky Rosen.

“Sam! Hi!” The young computer technician quickly encroached upon his space, cutting off Jess mid-sentence and actually stepping between them. “How are you?!”

Moore’s face read disbelief. “Hi.” She said, loudly, bending a little to speak directly into Becky’s ear.

“Becky,” Sam forced a smile, trying to apologize with his eyes to Jessica. “How nice to see you here.”

Becky completely ignored the woman behind her and stepped further into Sam’s personal space, nearly touching him. “I’m so glad you could make it tonight! Dean said you might not be coming.” 

“He said that, did he.” Sam stepped backward, nearly bumping into a redhead at the bar.

“He said that you were really busy with lawyer stuff, which I get because, you know, you’re super smart and I always knew you were gonna be a great attorney, but I guess you found time, huh?”

“Excuse me, miss,” Jess placed a hand calmly on Becky’s shoulder, and while the women were distracted Sam tossed his champagne back with one long draw while Jessica explained that her and Sam were in the middle of a conversation, and would she please excuse them for a few moments?

“Well, if you don’t mind I am actually an old college friend of his,” Becky responded. “I know that you were probably having a fun chat and all, but it’s been ages and I just thought I’d stop and say hi.”

“That’s sweet, but don’t you think it’s a little rude to just...butt into a conversation?”

“Do you really mean to keep two college sweethearts apart?!” Becky’s tone was incredulous, and she leaned against Sam, arm creeping around his waist.

Sam shuddered and brushed her off. “Not sweethearts,” he muttered. “Agent Moore, I don’t know if you know Becky, but she and I went to Stanford together. I was her tutor our first year there, we graduated together.” He firmly placed his hand on her shoulder when she tried to lean against him again.

“Oh,” Moore gave a small nod. “Alright. I know Becky. You’re a hacker or something, right?”

Becky scowled. “I write code. I keep your job relevant. Without me and my team, your entire division would fall apart in a week.”

The agent’s smile was insincere. “Right. I knew you were important for something like that. I catch the bad guys. I keep your team alive.”

Becky’s countenance fell, and she shrugged a little. “Right. We all play our roles.”

“You ladies both have very important jobs,” Sam offered. “I wouldn’t have a job without both of you, so..uh, thanks.”

“Aw, you’re welcome.” Becky smirked. “Always happy to help old friends!” She laughed.

“Yeah. Uh, I’m gonna visit the ladies’ room. Sam, nice to meet you. Becky.”

“See you around the office, Moore!” Becky called after her.

Once the agent was gone, Sam abruptly spun to face Becky. “Why do you do that? Why do you keep telling people that we dated at Stanford?”

Becky frowned. “Well, we had that one night where we--”

“You, Becky. We had that one night where you confessed your love for me, and I told you that I’m not ready for that kind of relationship, and that I’m not attracted to you like that.”

“Why?” Her voice was raised. “Why can’t you be attracted to me ‘like that,’ Sam? What does that mean? I’m not pretty enough or smart enough or--” she motioned toward the restroom “--blonde enough?”

“Okay, please just..keep it down--”

“Sorry!” Her tone lowered to an angry whisper. “I thought we had something, Sam. No, I know we had something! You even said you liked me!”

“I said you were a great student, and I liked tutoring you, and I meant it, Becky, I really did, but you have got to stop obsessing over me and move on. Please.”

“Don’t you see? I can’t move on! I tried! For years, I tried and I tried. I’ve dated other guys...okay, I dated one guy, but it just wasn’t the same. He doesn’t understand me like you do!”

“I don’t understand anything about you.” Sam muttered.

“And he isn’t as good looking...tall, or muscular. He doesn’t have your strong jaw and flowing locks…”

A pang between his eyes signified the onset of a headache. Sam exhaled slowly. “Trust me, Becky, if you really try to move on you will find that there are plenty of men in this world who are just as good-looking as I am--better, even! They’re out there! I’ve seen them!”

“But they aren’t you.”

Sam was going to need something stronger than champagne.

 

\-----

 

Dean had never eaten so many smoked sausages in a row in his life. At least, not in the past decade or so. His stomach protested loudly to being stuffed with so much grease, but his taste buds were happy and that was really all he cared about at that second.

When he was fairly certain nobody important was looking, he pulled a small tin flask filled with whiskey out of his blazer pocket and chugged. It left a pleasant burn in its wake, doubtlessly aggravating his stomach further, but that was a problem that could be dealt with in the morning. He stood against the wall, head leaned back and eyes closed, until a wave of relaxation washed over his tight shoulders and neck. The drink was already taking effect. He opened his eyes and sighed with relief. The room felt a little less crowded in this corner. He thought about fighting his way back to the snack table, but there were just so many people between him and the food. They gathered around with little paper plates and filled them, then stood in front of the table for some unexplainable reason instead of clearing the way for other guests. It was a behavior pattern that Dean frequently noticed at parties like this one, which was exactly why he hated parties like this one.

“Get your shit and leave,” he muttered to nobody, sipping some more from his flask.

“Winchester!” That was the Chief’s voice. It was not the voice he wanted to be hearing right this second. He stuffed the flask back into his pocket and turned away swiftly, hoping that if he didn’t acknowledge the beckon that Singer would think he’d mistakenly recognized him.

“Dean! Get over here!”

No such luck. With a sharp exhale, Dean turned around and then plastered on an irritated smile. “What’s up, Chief?”

Standing next to Bobby was a young man in a slightly-wrinkled suit. His hair was all manner of messy, and his eyes looked tired.

_ The Rookie, _ Dean thought, sourly.

“Dean, this is Castiel, your new partner. Castiel, Dean Winchester.”

The Rookie stiffly raised his arm, hand poised for a shake. “It’s an honor to meet you.” 

Dean quirked an eyebrow. “Best place for this, Chief?” He asked. Bobby shot him a look that was positively deadly, so Dean relented and accepted the awkward handshake. “Nice ta meet you, too.”

Singer reached over and patted Dean roughly on the shoulder, muttering “be nice” through his teeth before throwing Castiel a smile. “I’ll let you two get acquainted.” He gave Dean one last, stern glare before walking away.

Just like that, Dean was left trying to think of something nice to say to this guy he was going to have to work with. He actually felt a little bad for the guy; this Castiel character didn’t seem to really have any sort of idea what to do next, and he looked a little timid, studying Dean with vibrant blue eyes. The stare was actually kind of...intense.

Dean cleared his throat and tried his best to make polite conversation. “So...how long you been in Kansas City?”

“I arrived only this morning,” Castiel replied.

“I see. And you had the, uh, misfortune of bein’ paired with me, huh?”

“Misfortune? I believe you to be an exemplary field agent. You have the highest closing ratio in the bureau. Chief Singer speaks very highly of you.”

With an amused chuckle, Dean said “Oh, does he?” and again retrieved his flask for another swig. For several long moments, the two were left just standing, facing each other, with no words between them.

Dean studied the decorations, noticing for the first time little plastic spiders dangling from the streamers. False cobwebs wrapped around the legs of the refreshment table and adorned the near corners of the room. They were strung haphazardly over the capacity sign near the restroom doors, as well as the restroom signs.

When he could no longer take the discomfort, Dean sighed. “Look, Castiel, I’m sure you’re gonna have all sorts of fun catchin’ bad guys and whatnot, but I don’t think that we are gonna work out. See, I don’t really do the whole ‘partner’ thing too well. Might be better if you tried to get reassigned, okay? You can tell ‘em whatever you want, I was a dick to you, I’m too closed off, whatever. Won’t be anything new to anyone, I’m sure. And, no offense man, but I don’t need some Rookie slowing me down when it matters, ‘kay?”

Castiel’s expression narrowed. “I don’t understand. We have not even worked together yet, we don’t have any way of knowing how--”

“I just know, alright? Been there, done that before.” He pressed his lips into a firm line and shook his head. “Never ends well. Best you just...find a partner who can actually, you know, work with a partner.” He finished off the whiskey while Castiel stared at him with a slightly incredulous countenance, and then he pointed toward the bar across the room. “I’m gonna go over there and get another beer.”

 

\-----

 

The “discussion” with Becky was getting completely out of hand. She had become hysterical, crying when Sam asked her to leave him be for the evening, and now Chuck Shurley, who worked at the desk beside her, had chimed in to try and talk Becky down from her hysteria. When he saw Dean approaching, he nearly clung to his brother for dear life, grabbing his arm and stopping him dead in his tracks.

The look of irritation on Dean’s face quickly faded into one of amusement and, in a falsely empathetic tone, Dean said, “Oh, Sammy. Were you bein’ mean to her again?”

Sam felt more blood rushing to his cheeks as Dean proceeded to “comfort” Becky, giving her a tentative pat on the back and uttering “there, there,” all while looking like he would laugh at any moment. Sam tried to leave while she was distracted blubbering her troubles to Dean, but Chuck was standing between Sam and his exit route, arms crossed.

“Shame on you,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly.

“But I didn’t--”

“Oh, but you did.” He moved to protectively crowd Becky. Sam sighed in exasperation and turned to ask the bartender for another drink, who refused with an apology. When he looked back, Dean was nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, Becky was now telling her entire life’s story to Chuck, who answered every sentence with, “I know, I know.”

 

\-----

 

By the time Dean was done flirting with virtually every woman at the event, the hall had mostly cleared out. A couple of the suits were still present, somehow very awake and engaging in loud conversation. Dean was finishing his eighth or ninth sandwich for the evening (he had honestly stopped counting) and gave his watch a glance: 3:04 AM. He gave a slight chuckle; it had been a long time since he’d been out this late, and he hadn’t really done it since his party days. He felt quite young as he waved goodbye to Agent Milligan, a scrawny young field agent with an ungodly stamina, and headed out the revolving doors into the dark city. Dim street lights gave an ugly illumination to the sidewalk, and Dean started his five-block trek back to the Denny’s parking lot where that boring sedan was parked. He walked by a vagrant, sleeping with a coat over his head, huddled into the corner of a little boutique doorway. Other than that and the occasional sound of cats mewling in the alleyways, the city was dead quiet. A car or two passed him. It was actually pretty eerie. 

The bright lights of Denny’s were welcoming. As Dean padded closer, however, a sick feeling settled into his stomach; the car wasn’t where he left it. In fact, when he got closer, it was pretty obvious that the car wasn’t in the parking lot at all. Anxiety fluttered within Dean, and he ran into the tiny lot. It was completely empty.

Swallowing panic, he burst through the double doors of the diner, which was also empty save for a thin old man wiping down tables.

“‘Scuse me,” Dean called, startling the waiter. “Hey, you know where my car went?”

“I’m sorry? Your car?” The man asked in a husky, frail voice.

“Yeah, had it parked just out there,” he gestured to the large window leading to the parking lot. “About seven or eight hours ago. Silver, four doors, pretty normal looking.”

“I’m sorry sonny, I haven’t seen your car, but the manager was here about an hour ago and had a couple of cars towed. Parking is for customers only, after all.”

“I’m a customer!” Dean exclaimed. “I mean, not right this second, but I am definitely a Denny’s customer! Gah.” He whipped out his cell phone. He hated to disturb Sam at this hour, but he needed a ride.

The battery was dead.

Dean clenched and unclenched his jaw a couple of times, staring at the black screen in disbelief. Of course his cell was dead.

“Hey, c’n I use your phone?”

“We don’t have a public phone, I’m sorry.”

“Can I borrow your cell?”

The old man gave a wheezy laugh and shook his head. “Don’t got one. Sorry.”

“Then just let me use the store phone!” Dean sighed and softened his tone. “Please. It’s the middle of the night, I’m stranded. That was a rental your dickhead boss had towed. I’m gonna have to pay a fortune to get it fixed if there is any damage.”

“Sorry, can’t. Store policy. But I wish you the best of luck.” He shuffled behind the counter, tossing the rag into a red bucket on the bar, before disappearing into the kitchen.

“Oh, come on!” Dean shouted. He growled and stormed back outside. He paced the parking lot a few times, hands on his head, trying to come up with a plan. He could try to walk to the bus stop, but that was miles away, and he wasn’t even sure he had any cash. He pulled out his wallet to check: six dollars.  _ Will that even cover bus fare these days? _ he wondered. Worse still, the October night air was starting to seep through his suit jacket. Well, November now, he supposed.

He sighed and trod back into the restaurant. At least in there it was warm. Maybe he could wait for another patron to come in and talk to them.

“Back to shout at me some more?” The waiter was back in the dining room.

Dean sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? It’s been a long night. I’d just like to get a cup of coffee.”

“Sure.” The waiter gestured to a booth near the door. “Have a seat. Anything else I can get ya?”

“No thanks.” Dean paused. “Actually, yeah. Pancakes sounds good.”

“Coffee and pancakes. You got it.”

Dean nodded with a tense smile. He really hoped that someone would be crazy enough to go downtown for Denny’s at 3AM.

 

“....sonny. Sir, you can’t sleep here.”

“Huh?!” Dean startled and sat upright, nearly knocking over a full glass of water.

“Sorry, you can’t sleep here. You gotta order something or go. Store--”

“Yeah yeah, store policy.” Dean groaned and wiped some crumbs off his face that he’d picked up laying on the table. “Can I get my ticket?”

“You already paid, sir.” 

“Oh. Right. Okay.” Dean slid out of the booth, feeling woozy and a little sick to his stomach. It was just after 5 now, and he stumbled outside. The air was colder than he remembered, and everything was slightly damp and smelled like wet foliage.

He couldn’t quite think well enough to plan a next step, so he found the dryest patch of ground he could find and sat down. He removed his jacket and slung it over his torso like a very tiny, itchy blanket. He leaned against the brick wall behind him and closed his eyes. Maybe the cops would come get him. Sammy would be able to bail him out and take him home, then. Dean drifted off to the thought of a hot shower.

 

When next he awoke, it was to a confused, “Agent Winchester?” coming from a gruff, unfamiliar voice above him.

Dean was cold, his-bones-felt-like-ice and he-couldn’t-feel-his-ass cold. His fingers ached. His neck ached. His throat felt like he tried to eat a colony of fire ants. He vocalized accordingly, a sort of groaning grumbling grunt coming from him.

“Agent Winchester, are you alright?”

He fought to open his eyes in the harsh sunlight. A blurry figure hovered over him. Dean startled, throwing his jacket to the ground and standing upright.  _ Bad idea, _ he thought, as blood rushed away from his head and his vision darkened. He couldn’t tell if he was falling or not, but strong hands gripped his arms and held him upright.

“You appear to have slept in a terrible position.”

That voice was starting to ring a bell in Dean’s head now. It was that guy, the angel guy from the party.  _ What was his name? _

“Call me...Dean.” He slurred. The words tasted like stale liquor and coffee, with a mild undertone of banana pancakes. “Oh, god.” He could feel bile rise to his throat.

“And you are extremely dehydrated. Did you not consume water upon leaving the event yesterday evening?”

Dean couldn’t answer, couldn’t even move. He just hunched over and vomited.

“I will assume you did not.” The angel stated. He was pretty calm for someone who’d just nearly been puked on. Well, for someone who had a little bit of puke on their shoes.

Dean’s head started to pound. His blood rushed loudly in his ears. As his senses finally began to return, he had the good sense to suddenly be extremely embarrassed.

“Oh. Oh god. I’m so...I’m so sorry, man, I didn’t mean to...those are nice shoes.”

“It’s alright, Agent. They will come clean.”

“Dean, dammit. Some guys chucks on your...chucks...you get to use his first name.”

“Dean.” 

_ Castiel _ . That was what he was called.

Dean thought he was going to hurl again when he felt another lump rise to his throat, and this time he was able to turn away, but it was just a loud, relieving burp. The queasiness started to ease.

“Do you require assistance in getting home?”

“The car!” Dean exclaimed suddenly. “Can I borrow your phone?”

“Alright.” Castiel reached into his pocket and produced a little black flip phone.  _ Old fashioned. _ Dean thought.  _ Nice. _

He stumbled to the sign near the front of the lot that read, “Parking for Denny’s Customers Only.” With a warning about unauthorized vehicles being towed and a phone number to call, which he quickly punched in.

“See if I eat at fucking Denny’s ever again, douchebag.” Dean muttered as the line rang. When he got a live person, he learned that they would not be bringing his car to his location. He would have to go pick it up. Dean responded with a flurry of swears and insults which got him nothing but a disconnect.

“I can take you to retrieve your car,” Castiel offered. “I am parked not far from here.”

Dean turned to give him a suspicious glare. “Hey, wait a second. What are you doin’ here, anyway?”

“I...I was waiting for you. I meant to speak with you after you left, but I encountered a distraction while waiting. I tried calling the number that Chief Singer gave me for you later on, but I immediately received a recorded message. Your voice mail box is full, Dean. You should delete some messages to make room for more.”

Dean just stared at him. “Yeah, okay, I’ll do that. So you were waiting for me? How the hell did you even find me?”

“I went looking when you did not answer your cell phone or your home phone. I called your brother, and he said that you were still here when he left. He told me where you parked and said to look for you there. That was after I spoke with the woman at his home.”

Eyebrows raised, Dean smirked.  _ Good job, Sammy. _

“I came here looking for you, and that is when I found you unconscious on the ground. I did not want to disturb you, but when you began to whimper I found it would be in your best interested to be awakened.”

A darker blush crept into Dean’s cheeks. He glared. “I don’t whimper, okay? Probably just couldn’t breathe or somethin’. ‘Cause it’s friggin cold outside.” He cleared his throat, scuffing his shoes on the deteriorating parking lot asphalt. “But uh, yeah. If you got a ride, I’d be happy to, uh, ride with you to the tow lot. If ya don’t mind.”

“Happy to help,” Castiel promised. His expression and his tone were sincere. Dean followed him out of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk, toward Castiel’s car. That hot shower was only a couple hours away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad you are all enjoying this! There is much more to come, I have a few chapters roughly drafted so I'm just smoothing them out before posting them here. This story has been in the works for a very long time, with very slow progress, but I think it's time to gift it to the world! You're welcome ;D I always welcome feedback, criticism, and of course praise so feel free to drop a comment! Love you guys, see you soon!


	3. The antidote for fifty enemies is Castiel.

**Chapter Three: “The antidote for fifty enemies is Castiel.”**

 

November seemed to have brought along with it the harsh reality of winter. Arctic temperatures swept in from the North, and Dean hugged his jacket closer to his body, fighting the wind that nearly blew the door of his rental car shut on his legs. It was at least twenty degrees colder on that Monday morning than it had been the previous day. It was true what most Kansas residents said:  _ If you don’t like the weather here, wait a day. _ Dean cursed quietly, walking briskly toward the Kansas City FBI Field Office.

Upon entering the building, he was immediately intercepted by Chief Singer’s assistant, who shoved a slim folder into his hands. “You’re going to Liberal” she said, cheerfully.

Dean groaned. “Come on, Charlie, I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”

Charlie pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, walking now alongside Dean as he beelined for the break room. “Sorry, I know it’s early but there’s been a murder out by that Oz exhibit and local PD has no idea what they’re doing. It’s a doozy, looks like a serial killer, maybe.”

Dean made an acknowledging noise. He pushed the break room door open and headed straight for the latte machine. After digging in his coat pocket for change, he fed it into the machine and waited impatiently for the thing to dispense a cup of dark, bitter liquid.

Charlie took the file back from Dean and flipped it open, gesturing to the photo of an extremely mutilated body; the torso was mangled and riddled with jagged holes. “I mean, look at this.”

Dean scrunched his eyes shut. “C’mon, Bradbury, that is not how I want to start my morning.”

She closed the folder. “Just be grateful that you didn’t have to find him like that. You better get steppin’. Your new partner has already been briefed and will be waiting for you in your office.” She turned on her heel, loose hair bouncing about her shoulders as she left.

It took a moment for Dean to register her words. “My new - hey!” He retrieved the little styrofoam cup from the coffee dispenser and chased after her. “I ain’t taking him to Liberal!” When he burst through the break room doors, he nearly ran into Agent Milligan. The jolt caused his cup to tip, and hot liquid sloshed out onto his pants. Dean yelped, and there was a  _ crash _ as Milligan dropped the porcelain mug he was carrying in a fright. 

“Oh my gosh! Agent Winchester!”

“Watch where you’re going!” Dean snapped. The collision had jarred his not-quite-healed pinky, and pain resonated from the appendage up nearly to his elbow.

“I’m so sorry,” Milligan was crouched now, collecting the shattered pieces of his coffee cup from the floor. “Gosh, I didn’t even see you there. My apologies.”

Dean exhaled slowly, watching Milligan’s frantic movements. “S’alright,” Dean huffed. “Sorry, kid.” 

“No worries. I’ve got it. I’m uh...sorry about your coffee.”

“That’s okay. Still got some in the cup.” Dean forced a tight smile before making his way further down the hall and stepping into the elevator.

Castiel was waiting in his office, just like Bradbury had promised. He was sitting, back straight and rigid, in one of the two chairs in front of Dean’s desk. Dean cleared his throat, announcing his presence, and the Rookie turned to look at him.

“Good morning, Agent Winchester,” he greeted. He spoke in an odd, pleasant monotone. Dean found it a little creepy.

“Morning,” Dean grumbled. “So, I hear you an’ me are going on a road trip.”

“If you are referring to the murder investigation you and I are to take part in, then yes.”

Dean sat down across from Castiel. He took in the peculiar garb; he hadn’t really noticed how rumpled the angel appeared that weekend, and he could have sworn he was wearing the exact same thing Saturday night at the party and Sunday morning when Dean had embarrassed the hell out of himself in the parking lot.

He felt his cheeks flush, and quickly set his coffee down in favor drying his pant leg with a tissue.

“Pretty routine stuff,” Dean mused, casually avoiding looking up at his new companion. “Probably don’t really need any backup on this one, I’ll head out and ask some questions, get some info. Call ya if I need ya.”

“The Chief was very adamant that I accompany you on this investigation,” Castiel said. “Besides, how am I to begin field training if I stay behind? I feel it is best that we drive out together.”

Dean tossed a damp, discolored tissue in the trash and grabbed two more, grumbling in irritation. It was way too early to be dealing with this shit.

“Fine.” He conceded. “We’re leaving in an hour. If you ain’t here, you ain’t comin’. Got it?”

“I understand.” 

Dean could see Castiel nod stiffly in his periphery.

 

\-----

 

Dean had no luck shaking the Rookie that morning, so at 9:15 they began the tedious drive to Liberal, Kansas. For six long, boring hours, he stared at the vast expanse of flat, brown, Kansas scenery. It was a quiet drive. This Castiel kid was pretty good at keeping his mouth shut. He didn’t argue with any of Dean’s radio selections, didn’t complain when Dean chose to drive with the windows down despite the sharp, brisk air outside, and he remained silently seated when they stopped for gas in Wichita, the halfway point.

It was a little after 3 in the afternoon when they arrived at the Super 8 motel on Cedar street, where the bureau had so generously offered them the cheapest possible accommodations.

The two agents carried their suitcases to the front desk, and Dean slapped his ID on the counter.

“Had a reservation for two under the name of ‘Singer,’” he told the dead-eyed desk clerk.

Dressed in a too-tight blouse, with dark hair fixed as if she’d had a wild work night, she picked up his ID, loudly chewing a piece of gum. She had no nametag, but Dean thought she looked like a ‘Shanese’ or even a ‘Candi’ with an ‘i’. When she looked at his face, briefly, and then pulled up something on her computer and typed, he decided that she was a Candi with an ‘i’. After a moment, Candi reached beneath the desk and retrieved two key cards, which she tossed unceremoniously onto the counter. “205, checkout time is 11:00.”

Dean nodded and snatched the keys, along with his ID. “Thanks.” Without a glance at Castiel, he started down the hallway toward the elevator.

 

It was less than five minutes before he returned to the front desk. 

“Excuse me, miss? Yeah, I think there’s been some sorta mistake. There are two of us. That means we need two beds.”

Castiel was right behind him, the tail end of his sentence audible as he approached, saying, “--don’t sleep, additional accommodations are unnecessary--”

“Shut it, Cas,” Dean bit, looking back at the hotel lady in earnest. “Please, we gotta have a different room. Two beds.”

“We’re all full, got some Oz thing going on at the park this weekend. That’s the only room we got for you, take it or leave it.”

“Then we’ll go somewhere else,” Dean said, reaching into his pocket for the cards.

“Nobody else is gonna have rooms either,” Candi promised. “Your guy seriously got the last vacancy. It’s a small town. Now, I’d be happy to have a room for a grateful guest, but, honestly, you aren’t gonna find anything else. You’ll be sleeping in your car, so you can take the one bed and get over your issues with your buddy there or you can risk being out in the cold. It’s supposed to get below zero tonight, so I wouldn’t take any chances.” She popped her gum with an indifferent shrug, glancing back at whatever was happening on her computer screen.

Dean worked his jaw for a moment, staring at the young lady with utter disdain on his features. “Fine.”

He turned again and marched, irritably, toward the room to dispense his belongings. “C’mon, Cas, we got work to do!” he called.

Castiel approached the counter and said, softly, “I apologize for my partner. He spilled coffee on himself this morning and this seems to have put him in a bad mood.”

“I can hear you!” Dean called from the elevator doors as they opened. “Hurry up!”

Castiel gave a small, apologetic smile, before following Dean up to their single-bed room.

When they returned to the room, Dean let the door slam before Castiel had a chance to enter. He stood, staring at the ugly comforter of the one queen-sized bed in the small hotel room. There wasn’t even a couch to sleep on.

Upon entering the room, Cas tried reassurances again. “The one bed will not be an issue. I don’t sleep, you can have it to yourself.”

“It’s the idea of sharin’ a hotel room with a dude. A hotel room that only has one bed. The whole hotel staff is gonna know we were both staying here. They don’t know about…” He looked over at Castiel, choosing his next words carefully. “...you know. That stuff.”

Castiel squinted, cocking his head to the side a bit. “I don’t know. What ‘stuff’?”

“You know. You...that you don’t need any sleep. They couldn’t know that.”

Head still tilted, Castiel eyed the bed again, before blinking and nodding slowly as though he understood.

Dean scoffed. “Whatever. I’m gonna go get my stuff from the car.”

 

\-----

 

Cas had no qualms whipping out his badge and presenting it to the first uniformed officer he encountered: the Liberty Sheriff’s Deputy. Unfortunately, he seemed to be directionally challenged; the thing was upside down.

With an exasperated huff, Dean snatched it from him and flipped it over, placing it back in his hands. 

When the policeman stared, indifferent, Dean’s cheeks grew hot. “He’s uh…” he glanced sideways at Castiel, “he’s new.” He presented his own badge from his jacket pocket. “We’re here about the Frieleng case. We need to see Gary Frieleng.”

“Body’s back here,” Officer Framingham spoke, pointing a thumb toward the back of the station. “I’ll get his effects from evidence and meet you at my office when you’re ready.”

Dean nodded his thanks, shooting Cas one last glare before rounding the front desk toward the morgue.

The Liberty Police Station Mortician, a short, stout woman with frizzy, dirty-blonde hair, pulled the body from a cold locker, a cool fog rolling out of the case. She pulled a white sheet from over the body, and Dean absently ran his thumb over his chin, grimacing; the dude was pretty mangled.

Dean lent a glance to Castiel, who appeared  disturbingly unfazed, crouching near the corpse and examining it closely. “Have you made note of these markings?” he asked. “They are quite unique.”

“Body’s been photographed, sure,” the mortician answered. She crossed her arms. “It’s not like tattoos are an uncommon thing, though these look like they might be gang related.”

On the shoulder of the body were three swirls resembling fingerprints, tattooed darkly in a triangle formation. Dean examined the dead man’s face; it looked like he may have been clean-shaven before he bit the dust, dark hair combed neatly to one side and falling into chaos where a gnarly hole broke the skin. Bits of bone protruded from his face, and his right ear was barely attached to the skull. Pale lips were caked in blood, and the victim’s neck was bruised and cut like whatever hit his head had taken a swing there, too. His traps bore dark red scratches that carried over his collarbone, onto his chest, and opened into the large jagged openings he remembered from the photograph, and down to his stomach, where it looked like…

Dean shuddered.

It looked like something had tried to tear him open.

“He wasn’t in any gang,” Dean muttered. The man looked to be in his late 30s, maybe early 40s. He was the suit-wearing type, with gangly arms and protruding ribs, one or two of which poked out through the ghoulish mess of his abdomen. “Poor bastard.”

Castiel didn’t say a word, which was actually a bit worrisome. Every single newbie that Dean had taken to a mortuary had frozen and either vomited, passed out, or, at the very least, run away from the sight of bodies far less gory than this. Even Dean’s seasoned stomach turned uncomfortably, making a loud noise. He made a gesture with his head toward the door. Must have been some angel thing; he’d overheard chatter from Gadreel’s first partner, talking about how the “freak of nature” (as he so delicately phrased it) looked at a corpse with the “morbid curiosity of a wild animal.” Gadreel being pretty well-known by now as a bit off an oddball, it didn’t surprise Dean in retrospect. He hadn’t really pegged every angel for being the creepy, practically-sniffing-dead-body type though. Because he didn’t lump anyone into stereotypes based on race! 

“We should go see what the Deputy has to say,” he suggested. He could stand the sight of all sorts of nasty critters, monsters, and the like, but seeing humans nearly dismembered, in what must have been an agonizing death, still upset him.

“Agreed.” Castiel concurred, finally averting that creepy gaze from the dead guy. He allowed Dean to lead the way from the cold death room toward the brighter halls of the police station.

The Agent and the Rookie took seats at Officer Framingham’s desk. Without a word, the policeman tossed three bags, sealed with bright red tape that read “EVIDENCE” across the top, in front of Dean and Cas. 

“All his stuff,” he said, shortly, then sat back and allowed Dean to examine the victim’s belongings.

In the first bag was a bloody brown leather wallet and some red-stained keys. One of the keys was bent and completely coated in blood.  _ Must have tried to defend himself, _ he deduced. By that measure, the attacker was most likely a stranger, and he had attacked somewhere between the vic’s car and the front door. The second bag held a very tattered copy of  _ The Wizard of Oz _ , and in the third bag was a peculiar little black jewelry box, engraved with tiny pictures and some scrawl that Dean couldn’t decipher.

While Dean was examining the items, Castiel took the liberty to say, “I have a theory.”

Framingham raised his eyebrows. “By all means; enlighten me.”

“I believe this was the work of demons.”

Dean’s heart skipped a beat, and he unceremoniously dropped the box on the desk with a sharp  _ clatter. _

Framingham blinked in Castiel’s direction, before turning his gaze to Dean and asking, “What did he say?”

“Uh...he said...he said ‘demons,’” Dean repeated, hesitantly.

“Yes, demons,” Castiel confirmed, nodding with conviction. “I believe that--”

“You know, demons,” Dean interrupted. “Drink...adultery…”

“You think that this guy was a cheater?” Framingham looked genuinely intrigued, leaning over his desk.

“Not entirely what I--” Castiel started, but he clamped his mouth shut when Dean glared incredulously at him.

“Uh, I mean, he coulda been, but I don’t think she did it.” Dean patted the evidence bag containing the wallet and keys. “Attacker would have defensive wounds. I’m assuming you interviewed the wife first thing?”

The officer was quiet, uncertainty showing on his features.

Dean raised his eyebrows and leaned forward, mouth agape. “What - seriously? Guy gets lobotomized on vacation and nobody interrogates the one person most likely to be with him?” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Where is she now?”

“I mean, the wife called 9-1-1 and was on the scene when we got there...she came with us to the station but I guess nobody really thought...could she really be a suspect?”

Dean couldn’t look more incredulous if he tried, so instead he stood up. “Get her in here pronto. We gotta talk to her, see what she knows!” 

“Sure thing, Agent.” Visibly embarrassed, Framingham stood from behind his desk, calling to another officer as he left the room.

“Freakin’ ameteur hour in this place,” Dean lamented.

“Dean, I don’t believe the wife was involved,” Castiel said, once they were alone. “And I don’t think it was a human who did that to him.”

“People can do worse,” Dean assured him. “I’ve seen it. But nah, I don’t think she did it either. I do think she probably has an idea who did, but there’s no way of tellin’ if Deputy Barney here don’t conduct a thorough interview.”

“You believe she may know who her husband was with at the time of the murder.”

“Damn right, I do!”

 

\-----

 

He had been speaking to Mrs. Frieleng for forty-five minutes, but it was clear that Officer Framingham was getting nowhere with her. The recently-widowed woman was all jitters and nonsense, and she couldn’t give a straight answer no matter how the deputy phrased his questions. Dean had taken a shot at it, but still no dice. 

She was clearly covering something up.

What that ‘something’ was, apparently, would be difficult to determine. It seemed to Dean that a proper investigation conducted at the appropriate time would probably have yielded a bit more telling evidence, but the cops had waited a full twenty-four hours before calling in reinforcements. Anyone connected to this murder was, most likely, long gone, and Dean wasn’t at all convinced that Mrs. Frieleng was the assailant. She had even agreed to submit to a medical exam (which also should have been done immediately following the crime).

In a quiet huddle outside of the interrogation room, Framingham had his hands on his hips. “I see two ways this can go. One: this is a dead end and this lady knows nothing. Two: she is our killer. We should get her to take a lie detector test.”

“Okay, listen,” Dean put on his best ‘hey, dipshit’ face, “that lady didn’t kill nobody, alright? She’s five-five, maybe five-six, hundred-and-ten pounds soaking wet. Gary ain’t no bodybuilder, but he also didn’t get beaten to death by Gidget in there, so let’s just try to figure out what she’s trying so hard to cover up.”

“You think she was in cahoots with someone to do it?” Framingham nodded as he spoke. “You did say he was a cheater. Maybe she got someone to kill him, hired a gun.”

“I - what - no! I didn’t say that he was a cheater!” Dean huffed. “I don’t think she’s responsible. Period. Directly or not.”

Cas stood tall, looking past Dean into the room through the two-way mirror  and attempting futilely to straighten his tie. “I’ll handle this. I’ve done research.” He gave Dean a pointed look. “I can crack her.”

For the first time that day, Dean smiled, struggling to stifle a chuckle. “Alright, Agent. Go ahead, why don’t you see what you can shake outta Miss Daisy.”

Cas looked quite pleased with himself. He made his way with determination back into the interrogation room, approaching the distressed woman, hands clasped behind his back.

“This oughtta be good,” Dean said with a small laugh, crossing his arms and stepping closer to the glass for a better view.

“Mrs. Frieleng,” Castiel began. “Obviously you are not being entirely truthful with us. Please tell me where you were when the murder occurred.”

“Please, Agent, I told the police everything I know--”

“I understand that you’re upset, ma’am, but it is vital to our investigation that you be completely forthright with me. We need to know where you were, where your husband was, and what you know about the people he was with.”

“I keep telling you, we came to town for the event at the Oz Museum, I had no idea that Gary--” She jumped and snapped her mouth shut when Castiel banged a fist suddenly on the table before her.

His voice was gruff and commanding, and he shouted “WHY DID YOU MURDER YOUR HUSBAND?!”

Mrs. Frieleng began to cry in that moment, and Dean muttered, “uh-oh,” before hurrying to the door and throwing it open.

“Agent!” He shouted. “That’s enough!”

Castiel looked very surprised to see Dean, giving him a questioning look and a hopeful gesture toward the woman seated across from him. 

“I didn’t know his name!” She sobbed, and Dean caught himself before he yelled for his partner to behave.

He let the door close behind him. “Excuse me?”

“The man that my husband was meeting with. I didn’t know his name.” With trembling hands, she pulled a crinkled tissue out of her pocket and dabbed at her nose and watery eyes with it. “He told me he had to meet a new client. He does this stuff sometimes, this weird cult-y stuff with charms and whatnot. He’s an archaeologist.” She blew her nose and then sniffled a few times, desperately trying to compose herself, wearily avoiding looking directly at Cas. “A few weeks ago, he found this odd piece of jewelry out in Cairo. Brought it home with him. He knew...he knew it was against the law, stealing from a dig site, but he was so fascinated by the damn thing. He kept saying it wanted to be brought here, that it was trying to get somewhere. He can be...could be a bit odd at times, especially when he had been overseas for a while. I didn’t really think about it until he told me he was going to meet with a potential buyer here. I’ve always wanted an excuse to go to that stupid museum, so I didn’t ask any questions. I never thought…I had no idea…” She broke down into tears again, and Cas knelt beside her, quietly apologizing for his outburst.

Dean stared at her while his gears turned.  _ Hieroglyphs. _ That little box was covered in them. It must have been what that charm was inside of.  _ Now that’s a lead, _ he thought.

“I know I should have told you,” she was blubbering. “But there was this man...he said that if I told anyone what I knew that I would be next! Please, you can’t let him do...You can’t let them do to me what they did to Gary. Please.”

“You will be safe at this station,” Castiel assured her. “We are going to place you into protective custody until we can catch the murderer.” He looked to Dean for affirmation.

Dean nodded, stare still a little distant. “Mrs. Frieleng, thank you so much for your time. You have been very helpful.” 

 

\-----

 

It was Dean’s sixth beer. Well...maybe it was his seventh. He had lost count. The only measurement he cared about was _‘drunk enough not to be completely fucking annoyed with this god-awful Monday.’_ Being in the car with Senior Prim and Proper had taken more of a toll than he would admit, and the utter farce that was the Liberty Kansas Police Force had absolutely driven Dean to the bottle. He didn’t typically drink on work nights, and he never drank while he was on a case, but there was absolutely no way he was going to survive the week without imbibing. 

He gave a slight start when the man on the barstool next to him spoke to the bartender; Dean hadn’t realized he had a neighbor.

“Evening,” the man said, obviously noting Dean’s surprise. He had a neat, stubbly beard, and bright eyes that sort of twinkled when he spoke. “Nice suit.”

Dean grunted. “Thanks.” He signaled that his bottle was empty and indicated that he wanted another.

“Awful lot of drinking for a Monday night.” The man gave Dean a pointed look. “Alone?”

“I drink alone,” Dean said with a slight melody in his tone. He smiled. “You’re here alone, too.”

Beardie laughed, and said, “That I am.” He took a sip of his own drink. It was a tall, brightly-colored thing with an umbrella. “Heartbreak doesn’t take days off, y’know,” he said, softly.

“Ah.” Dean nodded. “Neither does incompetence, apparently.”

“Rough day at the office?”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, you could say that.” He offered a hand. “Agent Dean Winchester.”

“Tim.” He accepted the handshake. “Nice to meet you, Agent.”

“Oh, uh, Dean’s fine.” He accepted another beer from the woman behind the counter. “Now that we’re on a first-name basis, tell me about the she-devil that put you here tonight.”

“Ugh, Deborah.” Tim made a face. “Blond-hair blue-eyed bimbo bitch. Never liked anything I did. She’d be making fun of me if she was here.” He gestured to his colorful beverage.

“Sounds like a real keeper, that Deborah.” 

“What about you?” Tim asked, propping his chin on his hand, elbow on the bar. “You’ve had quite a few of those. I mean, I know that the title ‘agent’ comes with a lot of weight, but you’re borrowing an awful lot of happiness from tomorrow. What do you need it for?”

Dean chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment. He sighed, hoarsely. “Well, I’ve been working with the new guy.” What the hell. What was the point of getting drunk at a bar if not to vent to a stranger? “Been driving me crazy all day. I mean, he doesn’t really...he doesn’t really do anything annoying, and it’s kinda weird. Where does he get off being all chill and collected?” Dean took another drink while Tim waited, attention apparently captured. “Then we get here and...no offense, but your local PD needs a serious overhaul. Anyway, my guy gets this idea from some cop show he must have watched. Starts yellin’ at our witness! Accusing her of stuff...stuff we got no evidence to support, okay? And she starts cryin’ and yakkin’. Ain’t pretty.”

“Did you get some good intel from her?”

“Well yeah, I mean she finally opened up, but she was all freaked out.”

“But she started talking!” Tim laughed. “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing!”

Dean squinted, frustrated by his inability to communicate why Castiel’s methods were unacceptable. “Yeah, but you can’t just...you can’t just decide to freak out on a witness, ya know? I mean…” He could feel the beer settling in his stomach and affecting his brain. He was definitely drunk now. “The FBI is all work, no play, alright.” Actually, he wasn’t feeling especially well. He set his bottle on the counter and swiped at his face, loosening his tie with a slow exhalation. 

Tim shrugged, sliding his now-empty glass to the bartender. “It’s your world, Agent.”

“Dean.” Dean corrected, focusing on  _ not feeling sick. Don’t be sick. _ He could feel Tim’s eyes on him, so he forced himself to look up from his hands. “Anyway, it’s stupid. It’s over with. For today, anyway. Tomorrow might actually be worth a damn, but today is a ‘get drunk so you don’t commit homicide yourself’ day.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Tim agreed, lifting a fresh glass with some new colors in it. “Here’s to drinking at inappropriate times, in inappropriate places.”

Dean lifted his beverage and clinked it gently against Tim’s. He lifted the bottle to his lips, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually ingest any of the liquid. Partially, he didn’t want to encourage the heartburn beginning to sear his sternum, but he was honestly considering his fellow drunk’s words. Cas had acted completely unprofessional at the station earlier that day, but he did reap the necessary information to launch a pretty good canvass tomorrow. Dean had chewed him out pretty hard on the drive back to the motel. Maybe he didn’t deserve that kind of criticism, especially on his first case when his behavior had honestly gotten results.

_ Damn, I’m a pansy when I drink. _ Dean closed his eyes, the voice in his head actually quite loud. His stomach hurt.

“You know,” Tim was sitting facing Dean now, and he might even have moved his stool closer, Dean wasn’t sure. “My now-ex-girlfriend would say--”

“I’m sorry,” Dean interrupted, standing up. The ground swayed beneath him - no, wait, that was him swaying - and he took a moment to balance himself. “Sorry, Tim. I gotta get back to the hotel and get some sleep. Long day tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Tim looked a little crestfallen, “I thought we had a...never mind.” He nodded, understandingly. “Be safe getting home, and you have a good night.”

“You have a good--” Dean started to respond, but in his attempt to walk without looking he stumbled into a chair and nearly hit the ground. His face burned crimson, and he just turned to leave, muttering, “Okay.”

 

\-----

 

It was half-past-midnight when Dean finally stumbled into the motel room. Castiel was sitting in a rickety, harvest-style chair, watching a television program about the Grasshopper Mouse, an extremely vicious little creature that fought scorpions and howled at the moon in the Arizona desert.

The odor of alcohol permeated the air around Agent Winchester when he managed to get the door open, grumbling something about how the room key was functioning improperly.

Without averting his eyes from the screen, Cas asked, “Are you drunk?”

Dean made an incredulous sort of puffing snorting sound, accompanied by an exaggerated wave of his hand. Castiel glanced over at him as he tried to remove his shoes, succeeding only in falling to the floor, where he begrudgingly sat while he untied his laces and kicked off his trousers.

“M’gonna get some sleep,” he mumbled. He struggled for a moment to stand. Cas thought about trying to help him, but Dean finally managed, shrugging off his jacket and collapsing onto the bed. He was snoring softly in less than a minute, atop the covers, still wearing his white button-up and a loose tie. The tie was definitely a strangling hazard.

“Dean,” Castiel said the name firmly, hoping to rouse his partner before he fell into a deeper sleep. “Dean, you should remove your tie and shirt before sleeping. Your shirt will be wrinkled in the morning if you do not hang it up. Dean.”

Dean snored.

With hesitation, Cas stood up and approached the side of the bed. “Did you not pack night clothes? I thought you would want to dress to preserve your modesty. You did express disdain at our accommodations.” Castiel stood at the bed for a few moments, contemplating what he should do. The tie had to be removed, and if Dean wasn’t going to do it, Castiel would. He tried to wake Dean by shaking him; he didn’t stir.

“Dean, I’m going to take your tie off.” The agent most likely couldn’t hear him, but Cas felt better saying it aloud anyway. He knelt on the scratchy bedspread, leaning over to work the tie from under Dean’s collar and pull it gently over his head. He was surprised that Dean had no reaction at all when he pulled the tie away by wriggling it between his face and the blanket. Castiel stood and glanced around the room; Dean was going to get cold with his legs exposed, and it would be unfortunate if he got sick on their first case together. He might create a negative association with Castiel as a result, if he wasn’t upset enough from the day’s antics. After briefly attempting to coax Dean into the bedsheets, he began searching the room for something to cover him with.

Maybe, he thought, he shouldn’t have handled Mrs. Frieleng the way he did. Castiel knew that it was unconventional, and he knew that Dean would probably be upset with him. It was probably why he had gone out and gotten drunk that night, without saying where he was going or when he’d be back, beyond a “Don’t wait up,” hollered over his shoulder as he left. Agent Winchester’s behavior so far put Castiel ill at ease. He was reckless, he was presumptuous, and he needed to reign in his temper. He felt it would be out of place to express these things, however, since Dean was his superior and that was likely to be the case for a while.

Castiel finally found a thin, brown blanket in the bottom drawer of the television stand. He unfolded it and laid it over Dean, tucking it gently around his upper arms. Dean sighed when he did so, as though the gesture comforted him. A tiny smile tugged at Castiel’s lips; this was the happiest Dean had looked the entire three days he’d known him.

He picked up the remote and powered off the TV, before sitting back down in the chair, hands folded in his lap, to watch Dean sleep.

 

It was 5:32 AM when Dean woke with a start, sitting upright in the bed with distress on his face. The hair on the left side of his head, which he’d slept on, was half flat and half sticking straight up. He had red lines on his face from the blanket, and his eyes were puffy.

“What time is it?” He asked. His voice was gravelly.

“Half past five,” Castiel responded. “You should drink some water.”

Dean looked at Cas, eyes narrow, and sat up in the bed. He felt his legs through the blanket. “Where are my pants?”

Castiel looked at the table, where he’d neatly laid out Dean’s clothes after folding them in the middle of the night. “I tried to get you to remove your shirt, as well, but you wouldn’t wake up.”

Dean grasped at his shirt where the top three buttons were open, covering his chest with his other hand. “You what?”

“Your shirt is going to be wrinkled now. You’ll have to iron it, perhaps wash it, before we go anywhere today.”

“Cas, did you take my clothes off when I came in?”

Despite having done nothing wrong, Castiel felt himself blush. “No! You undressed yourself. You returned intoxicated and you threw your pants and your jacket on the floor.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll go downstairs and get you some ice. You are going to feel very unwell soon.”

“I’m already feeling pretty unwell, Cas, but thanks.”

“Sorry, Dean. You should get cleaned up. I can bring you some breakfast from downstairs, it will be available in,” he glanced at the clock, “twenty-six minutes.”

“Just enough time to get a shower.” Dean nodded. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Cas stood to leave, but was paused when Dean called, “Hey, Cas?”

He turned around. “Yes?”

“What did you do all night? I mean, I know you said you don’t sleep, so why even come back here at all?”

Castiel tried very hard not to fidget. “I wanted to make sure that you were safe. You didn’t inform me of your whereabouts last night, and when I saw how drunk you were I grew concerned for your safety.”

“You were...you were watching me?”

“Yes.”

“...all night?”

“Yes.”

“Um...Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“....nevermind. Uh, I’ll take ya up on that breakfast thing.”

“Alright.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad you guys are sticking with me and (hopefully) enjoying this AU! There is more to come in the following weeks and I'm sure it will be grand as well! I'm very much enjoying portraying our boys as *actual* FBI agents hahaha. Keep reading y'all, love you guys!


	4. My burden is my purpose. Without it, I wouldn't be Dean.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery deepens, the plot thickens! Dean and Cas meet a mysterious youth who may have some answers about their murder investigation.

**Chapter Four: “My burden is my purpose. Without it, I wouldn’t be Dean.”**

 

Walking back into the Liberty police station with a cool head and a heavy hangover was among the most difficult things that Dean had ever accomplished. Every spoken word, stapler stapling, phone ringing, and door closing drove a searing pain deeper into his skull and a sickness into his stomach.

Castiel had made Dean eat a full breakfast, despite his protestations, and drink so much water that Dean eventually hurled eggs and a biscuit into the dingy motel toilet. The only palatable part of his morning was the shower, cool and refreshing and quiet. He threw up again in the shower, and when he got back out it took every last effort he possessed not to crawl into the bed and sleep for the rest of the week. He was pretty sure he had never been so hungover in his life. Not even that weekend after his 21st birthday when his college roommates took him to a ratty strip club and tube-fed him Jose Cuervo all night.

In addition to the pounding headache and heavy nausea, Dean could feel eyes on him in every direction. He knew he looked like hell. His face was pale, his hands felt clammy, and he probably still carried a faint odor of alcohol. Maybe vomit, too. He really could have sworn he didn’t drink that much, it was only...well, it was at least ten beers, he knew that.  _ Not a teenager anymore, _ he reminded himself.

“Good morning, Agent Winchester,” Framingham greeted. “Agent Stills.”

Cas, holding a legal-sized manilla folder in his hands, nodded a greeting. He deferred to Dean momentarily, who could barely even stand without swaying uncomfortably.

“Good morning, Deputy,” Cas said, when Dean didn’t answer. “We would like to speak with Mrs. Frieleng once more. We have had time to review the evidence and I have a few questions I’d like to ask.”

Cas must have spent the evening looking over the case file.  _ Idiot. I should have been doing that. _

“I’ll have her brought to Interrogation Room B,” Framingham said. “I should warn you, though, she lawyered up. Her attorney knows his stuff. He got a whiff of the, uh, interview yesterday, and he is putting all sorts of ideas in her head about lawsuits and police brutality and the like.”

“Police Brutality?” Castiel replied with a tilt of his head. “Was she mistreated in some way during the interview yesterday?”

“You yelled at ‘er, Cas.” Dean finally managed to speak. “Not illegal, but witnesses don’t like that and lawyers love to start shit. He don’t get much just defendin’, but if she wants to file a suit she’s got to slap a big fat retainer on him.” He huffed. “Asshole. It’ll never hold, and he knows it, but he’ll still get his payday.”

Castiel looked both baffled and disgusted, an almost adorably naive look of questioning on his features. “That’s not...very moral. Can he do that?”

Both Dean and the Deputy gave disapproving, acknowledging  _ huffs _ , and Framingham radioed someone to have Frieleng sent over.

“No funny business today, Cas,” Dean muttered while they walked toward the far end of the station. “I mean it. Let me do the talking.”

“Dean, are you sure that is wise? You are not--”

“ _ I mean it. _ ” Dean gritted his teeth. “Look, man, you did good work yesterday, but that was ‘Rookie luck,’ alright? Last thing we need is for this lady to actually have a reason to sue us. That would be very very bad. Could set the case back for months and we can’t afford that.”

“I understand, but, Dean, I have gathered the security footage from nearby venues where the couple was staying and I believe I may have identified our suspect. If I can get Mrs. Frieleng to identify him on the record, we can bring him in for questioning.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“You said that if I bothered you one more time before you got your coffee that you were going to ‘force-feed me my tie and hang me out of this third-story window by my shoelaces.’”

Dean slowed his pace.  _ I did say that, didn’t I. _ He sighed, softly. He should probably stop being quite so stuck up, this was supposed to be Castiel’s opportunity to learn, and he seemed to be doing okay so far. “Fine,” he said, “but I don’t have to be happy about it.”

“No. Thank you.” He handed the file he was carrying to Dean to look through while they waited.

 

\-----

 

An officer finally buzzed them in to the interrogation room, where Mrs. Frieleng sat at a grungy black table next to a man who must be her attorney.

Dean’s heart skipped a beat.

The lawyer stood up, bright smile revealing straight white teeth. He was clean-shaven and handsome, and horribly, sickeningly familiar.

He extended a hand first toward Castiel. “Good morning, gentlemen; Timothy McGinn, Attorney at Law. I will be representing Mrs. Frieleng.” He extended a hand to Dean, who just shook dumbly with a blank stare. The nausea washed back over him, roiling in his stomach and rising to his throat. He swallowed it back and plastered a smile on. He could not show any weakness now.

“Good morning, Mr. McGinn. Mrs. Frieleng.” He adjusted his blazer as he sat, stiffly, across from them.

“Mrs. Frieleng, I have some images taken from security cameras that I would like you to take a look at,” Castiel began, handing his folder now to the lawyer across the table.

The two-faced, lying, secretive, fake-friend attorney took the folder and opened it, scanning its contents before handing it to his client. Recognition immediately fluttered over her features.

“Have you seen that man?” Castiel asked.

She looked up at McGinn, who nodded gently for her to answer.

“I think...that’s the man. I didn’t really get a good look at him, but I’m pretty sure I saw Gary with him before...you know.”

“Would you testify to that in court?” Castiel asked.

She looked from the pictures to Castiel’s imploring face. It really was a hard face to tell “no.” She nervously glanced at her lawyer again, who again nodded, encouragingly this time.

“Yes,” she said. “I can testify to that.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said, softly. He looked to Dean, who uncrossed his arms and sat forward.

“Mrs. Frieleng, I would appreciate if you could prepare a written statement recounting exactly what happened the night of the incident.”

“Oh, but I’ve already given my statement to the Deputy--”

“I know, ma’am, but it helps if there is something in the records in your exact words. Cops tend to paraphrase, and while that works perfectly well to aide in an investigation, if there is any reasonable doubt left while charging the suspect it helps to have a written statement from all of the witnesses.”

“Of course, I understand.”

“I’ll help you with that later today,” McGinn assured.

“Fantastic. Thank you again, Mrs. Frieleng. You have been a lot of help.” He stood from his seat and headed toward the door.

He let Cas leave first, glancing behind him at McGinn and saying, “A word?”

McGinn stood up, giving his client a final pat on the shoulder and following Dean into the dark hallway.

When the door shut, Dean grumbled, “You son of a bitch!”

McGinn looked genuinely shocked. “Whoa, now, Agent! You can’t blame me for your bad habits.”

“I could have you disbarred for tampering!”

“That’s juries, Agent Winchester.”

Dean growled and clenched his teeth, jaw flexing. “Not cool, man. Why didn’t you tell me you were her lawyer?”

“I wasn’t last night,” Tim stepped closer to Dean, way too in his personal space. “I - oh, god you have very bad breath today.”

Dean clapped a hand over his mouth, face flushing hot. 

“I’m sorry, Dean. I am! I really...you know, thought we had something.”

Dean took a moment to register Tim’s words, face getting hotter. “You thought...you and I...oh. Oh! I mean - no, I don’t mean that in a bad way, I just don’t...uh...you know.”

“Oh. Oh!” He took a big step away from Dean, blushing himself. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. You were drunk and you were flirting, so I kinda thought you must be…”

“Nope. Nah. I like women. Ladies. Sorry, man.” Dean cleared his throat. This was the most uncomfortable day of his life. “I, uh, gotta catch up with my partner. You,” he coughed a little to cover up the catch in his voice. “You take care, okay? I’ll see ya later. Uh, at the police station. And the courthouse. Because we’re on a case. The same case. Well, your witness. In my case.”

Tim smirked a little, nodding. “Sure will. Take care, Agent Winchester.”

 

          -----

 

Around 1:00 the nausea had begun to subside, only to be replaced with a pounding pain in his head. Dean and Cas sat across from each other at a two-person diner booth. Cas casually (but with an unnatural frequency) sipped from a tall, frosty glass of water, only because Dean insisted that it would be odd if they came in together and only Dean ordered. Dean picked uneasily at a half-eaten burger on his plate. His stomach was still unsettled, and though leaving the burger uneaten made him feel a modicum of guilt, the feeling of almost-queasiness was stronger. 

          “Something still ain't right,” he mumbled, breaking the long silence that had settled since they had ordered.

          “Such as…?” Cas inquired. He took another sip from his glass after he spoke. 

Dean elected not to say anything about the weird drinking pattern.  “I don't know; just a gut feeling, y’know?”

          “No, I do not. Angels do not possess the same digestive tracts as humans, so we--”

          “Not a feeling in my literal gut, Stills. It's an expression.”

          Cas gave a moment of pause, tilting his head slightly before twisting his features into an expression of vague understanding. “I see. I have heard it used before, however I had always believed it to be in reference to a sense of good or bad in the stomach that I simply could not experience.”

          Dean chuckled. “No, buddy. Not really. It just means that you have a kinda...instinctual feeling about something, I guess. Like you can't point at any evidence or nothin’, but something just  _ feels _ off.”

          “I see. But I don't understand how, as an investigator and a law enforcement agent, you could genuinely subscribe to this…’gut feeling.’”

          “I don't - it's not - I mean, you aren't supposed to act on it, just be on the…” Dean sighed and sat back in his chair. “Look, you don't have to understand or even believe me. Just trust me, alright?”

          Cas looked more perplexed than before, but he said nothing and nodded in agreement.

          “What made you say that thing about demons?” Dean asked, trying to get away from the subject.

          “I beg your pardon?”

          “Yesterday, at the station. You took one look at that body and said it was demons. Why?”

          “Oh, yes. As an angel, I have a sense for the supernatural. I could sense that demons were at work in this case, though I can not discern with what motive, how, or why. My senses felt extremely dulled in the morgue, as though I had been hexed or cursed somehow.”

          “Uh-huh. So you think this is a supernatural case we are dealing with?”

          “Undoubtedly. I can sense demons even now, in this town. Heavy demon activity, in fact, though again I can’t quite pinpoint it.”

          As Cas spoke the words, even, that feeling in Dean's stomach (though not entirely discernable from the hangover) crept deeper into him, and he felt a chill. He scanned the room, and in the background of his focus he could hear Cas still speaking, droning on about demons and cults and something about angel chatter. The room looked undisturbed. A pretty waitress was taking orders at a booth on the far wall. The hostess leaned on her podium, chatting with a waiter. The sun was beginning to creep into the west side of the sky, casting bright light on the floor through the large windows on the storefront. If not for the dead trees and brown grass outside, it would look like a warm summer day.

          Dean scanned the patrons of the diner; none looked suspicious or even slightly shady. Dean’s skin prickled tighter nonetheless, and he grabbed his blazer from the booth seat beside him and their ticket from the table. “Let's get out of here, we still got work to do.” 

          The two of them stood together. Dean tossed some change from his pocket on to the table, justifying the lame tip with  _ The service was terrible _ in his mind. As they made their way to the front of the diner to pay the bill, Dean spotted a gaggle of what looked like college frat boys entering through the front door. Well, closer to high school age really, he realized, but there were three of them and they were huge, buff and wearing basketball shorts with hoodies unzipped over t-shirts and tank tops. He watched them seat themselves as the hostess rang him up, and just as he turned to leave, something caught his eye. The smarmiest of the douches had shed his hoodie over the back of a chair, and there, on his left shoulder, were three barely-visible dots. 

          He stared a moment longer, inserting his card back into his wallet to buy a few seconds to look.  _ No. Not dots. Swirls. Just like the corpse. _ Dean nudged his partner, looking away from the kids and gesturing with a nod.

          Dean thanked the stars in heaven when Cas took the hint without verbalizing and looked in the intended direction. “Those markings,” he said, in a low voice.

          “Mm-hmm. We need to talk to that kid.” Dean began putting his blazer back on as he made his way to the table. For the first time since their departure, Cas seemed uneasy.

          “Agent Winchester, are you certain we should just-”

          “It’s fine,” Dean interrupted. “Excuse me.” He centered himself in the guy’s line of vision and forced a weak smile, pulling his badge from the jacket pocket. “Agent Dean Winchester, I would like to have a word with you.”

          With an annoyed-adolescent look, narrow brown eyes flitted only momentarily up at him. “Agent, huh? What can I do for ya...agent?” The last word was said slowly, with some sort of sarcastic or disbelieving tone to it that rubbed Dean in every wrong direction.

_ Oh my god I hate teenagers.  _ “I'm in town on an investigation and I have reason to believe you may know something about my case. Mind if I have a word with you?”

          With a scoffing half laugh, he looked at his friends and pointed toward Dean with his thumb. He shook his head, then looked up at Dean. “Alright.” 

          “Thanks. Promise I'll only keep him a sec, then you guys can get back to...football...or underage drinking...whatever you talk about.”

          The friends gave an uneasy laugh, but the one standing to talk to Dean didn't seem fazed by the comment.

          They walked tensely outside together, and Dean braced against the sharp, cold wind. “What's your name, kid?”

          “Jackson.”

          “....Jackson…?”

          “Brett Jackson.”

          “So, Brett Jackson, I was hoping you could tell me about your relation to Gary Frieleng,” Dean opened.

          Brett Jackson looked across the parking lot. “Don't know him, sorry.”

          “Really? Because from the looks of things, you guys got matching tattoos some time. No judgment, man, what happens in Vegas and all that.”

          “I don't get what you're tryna say, agent. Tattoo parlors give out cheap dime-a-dozen tats all the time, man. Got it when I was drunk. Don't mean nothing.”

          “Gary Frieleng was found dead Sunday with those same marks. Your life may be in danger, so whatever freaky cult stuff you two were doing I don't care, but we need to get you into protective custody and you need to tell the police everything you know.”

          He laughed. “You don't know what you're talking about, dude, but nice chat. I gotta go, I'm kinda on a time frame here so-” he turned to go back inside.

          “Just one second,” Dean gruffed. He reached toward Brett and grabbed his arm. In one swift motion, Brett shrugged off the hold and swung around fist-first, landing a jab straight to Dean’s left cheek bone. He staggered backward, the clouds above him spinning jaggedly as his (Witness? Suspect?) bolted away. The diner door swung open with a raucous clattering of bells.

          He caught himself on one of the huge windows, just in time to hear Cas shout “Freeze!” 

          The frantic footfalls halted, and Cas’ voice carried distantly. “Down on the ground! You are under arrest for assault of a federal agent.”

          “I barely touched him!” Was the teen’s response. Cas paid the plea no heed and proceeded to cite Brett’s rights over the clinking sound of handcuffs being applied. “C’mon man, at least let me get my jacket! It's freezing out here!”

          Dean began to center himself. He saw Cas haul the assailant off the pavement and shove him unceremoniously into the backseat of their rental car, engaging the child lock on the door before he closed it. He repeated the process on the opposite side, then walked swiftly to where Dean was still leaning against the glass.

          “Dean, are you okay?”

          Dean nodded, clearing his throat and standing upright. The dizziness resumed and he took an uncertain sideways step. Cas caught his shoulder and said “Be careful. You're disoriented.”

          “No shit,” Dean groaned, gingerly touching his face where the blow had landed. It stung, and blood came away on his fingers. “Son of a bitch! That asshole is like a sledgehammer!” He swayed a little, and with the sway his stomach lurched. He hurried to lean away from Cas as best he could, but the nausea swelled too fast and all the work he had put into eating lunch was undone as he hurled again onto the parking lot at Cas’ feet. He remained hunched over for a moment, closing his eyes against the burning in his cheeks. He told himself it was from the punch. Morbid humiliation swept through him.

          “We will need to file a report,” said Cas, not missing a beat.

          “I know.” Dean sniffed and spit onto the ground, trying to get rid of the taste so he didn't puke yet again. He slowly straightened, eyes still closed. “Little punk,” he muttered.

          “Let’s get back to the station. Do you intend to press charges?”

          “Nah, he's just a kid, I'm sure he just freaked out. But he needs to think I'm going to so he talks. And it's a good reason to keep him in custody for a little bit anyway.” He finally opened his eyes and patted Cas’ shoulder. “S’go.”

 

Dean let Cas drive them back, holding a bag of ice against his face and throwing threatening glances in the rearview mirror every few minutes for good measure.

          Aside from an initial meltdown and some arguing, Jackson sat quietly in the back sans seat belt, staring almost stoically through the windshield. He never met Dean’s gaze in the mirror. He looked resigned. They rode in silence back to the station, where Cas hauled the offender out of the car and shoved him ahead of him through the front doors. It would have been comical, watching the disheveled rookie push around a man with at least a foot and probably 100 pounds on him, if it wasn't so damn impressive.  _ That little angel is a giant badass. _

          “What's this?” Framingham asked as they approached the front desk.

          “Mr Jackson assaulted Agent Winchester when he attempted to ask him a series of routine questions pertaining to our murder investigation,” Cas explained.

          “Assault--holy hell, Agent!”

          “C'mon, it ain't that bad,” Dean said. He grimaced. “Is it that bad?”

         “Your face is a different shape, Winchester. Let me get the nurse to take a look at you, you need an X-Ray.”

          “I don't need that,” Dean insisted, “I'll be fine.”

          “We need to know the extent of the damage for your report,” Framingham explained. “Please. It will only take a moment.”

          Dean looked toward his partner for support, but Cas was already leading the junior criminal to holding. He sighed and conceded, following Framingham toward the department infirmary. 

          Following a thorough examination of his face and several lights shone into his eye to make sure he could still see just fine (he could), some painful poking and prodding, and another ice pack, Dean was cleared to return to the investigation at hand with the understanding that he keep it iced and get a follow up at home. He nodded and swiftly made his way to the interrogation room, where Agent Stills was talking quietly with Officer Framingham. Behind them was the two way mirror behind which Mrs Frieleng had sat the previous day. In the small, bright room, Jackson had been uncuffed and placed in a metal chair next to the table. He bounced his leg and looked tensely around the room.

          “Agent Winchester,” Framingham greeted him. “Everything look good for you there?”

          “Yup. Cleared for duty by Nurse Ogawa herself.”

          “Great! Agent Stills here,” he nodded to Cas, “filled me in. We tried to get him to talk, said this would be over much faster if he just told us what was going on, even offered to get him a lawyer. Stills even told him that we were going to get the information we needed with or without his cooperation, Jackson said, and I believe these were his exact words: ‘over my dead body you immoral pig.’”

          “Christ, what a winner,” Dean huffed, looking through the mirror in frustration. Just what they needed today: an uncooperative witness.

          “I showed him a photo of the box,” Cas continued. “He said he didn't recognize it, but his expression and demeanor suggested he was lying.”

          “Mmm.” Dean acknowledged, still watching with some intent.

          Jackson had begun fiddling with his left sneaker. Dean squinted and stepped in for a closer view and said, “what is he doing?” As he did so, Jackson pulled something out of the aglet on his shoelace. He popped it in his mouth.

          Dean felt a cold rush of adrenaline. “No no no no NO!” He bolted for the door, shouting “Let me in!” to Framingham, who looked dumbstruck for a moment before complying and unlocking the door. Dean pushed through frantically and grabbed the kid by the wrists. “Spit that out, you little shit!” 

          Jackson smiled. “Too late, asshole. Good luck with your murder case though. I'm sure you'll...you…” he began to cough and sputter. He started sliding off the chair, and he was too heavy for Dean to hold up.

          “Get a medic in here!” Dean shouted. He knew there was no point. Whatever poison Brett had ingested acted swiftly. He was already seizing, pink foam gathering at the corners of his mouth and dribbling onto the floor.

          Dean turned him on his side, supporting his head to keep it from knocking against the concrete floor. “Don't you die on me, kid,” he muttered. “Don't you fuckin’ dare, you little prick.”

          It took only moments for the in-house nurse to arrive and only minutes for local EMTs, but there was nothing anyone could do. The seizing had stopped by the time the ambulance got there, and Jackson lay limp on the floor, foam and now bile dripping from his slack mouth. His eyes had rolled back and gone almost completely red. 

          “He's gone,” one of the responders said. Dean barely heard him over the tense ringing in his ears. A witness - a teenager - had just poisoned himself secret-agent style in the Liberty Police Station interrogation room. For what? What the hell could he be protecting that was worth his life? His young, albeit douchey, but likely long, and prosperous life?

          He slowly released the body at the gentle beckoning of the other EMT, and he stood in disbelief, staring down at the mess. He was pulled from the stupor by Cas, who had placed a hand gently on his shoulder. Dean looked up at him in disbelief.

          “Dean,” Cas spoke in a hushed tone. “Are you alright?”

          Dean cleared his throat and nodded, wiping away the look of horror he was sure had crossed his features. “Yeah, yeah I'm good. Just, uh, surprised. I mean, what the hell is going on here?”

          “I'm not sure. This case becomes more confusing with every new piece of evidence. I have a strong suspicion that we just lost our best chance of locating our murderer.”

          “Agreed. And y’know somethin’, Cas? I'm starting to think this thing goes beyond just one murder. This might be pretty big.” Dean pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket. “I'm gonna go get some pictures of that box and shoot them to Sam. He might be able to find someone who can tell us what it is and what it means.”

          “Sam? Your brother?”

          “Yeah. Sorry, he's an attorney, got a lot of...eccentric clients. Maybe one of them can help us translate those writings.”

          “Ah. Yes, that would probably be prudent.” Cas agreed, following Dean out of the room. “I didn't know your brother was a lawyer,” he added, after a moment.

          “Lotta things you don't know about me, Agent Stills!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I struggled more in this chapter than any with my spelling of the word "Frieleng." For some reason I have been super inconsistent with its spelling? So if I missed one during my numerous edits, I apologize!  
> Once again I'd like to thank my readers for their feedback. I'm having such a blast writing this story! I didn't realize it had been over a month since I'd updated, sorry about that. Y'all enjoy your goofy detectives solving some mysteries.  
> Who is the killer? Why did Brett Jackson poison himself? What is that mysterious box found on the dead guy? What do the matching tattoos mean?! STAY TUNED FOR MORE!


	5. There's Always a Way, if you're Sam.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scavenger hunt BEGiNS! Our heroes finally find a lead on some of their more elusive clues, but it isn't where they're expecting. The adventure is only beginning.

**Chapter Five: “There’s Always a Way, if You’re Sam.”**

It was one of those short reprieves between court sessions on a busy Tuesday afternoon that Sam received a series of texts, sending his phone buzzing across the café table. He set down the coffee he’d been cradling for warmth and picked up the device. It was Dean. And he was sending a string of messages. He opened the thread and scrolled up, glancing at several photos of a small wooden box, covered in inscriptions, before coming to several boxes of texts asking for Sam to do Dean a solid and contact some of his “more colorful clients” to see if any of them could recognize and/or translate the writings.

          Sam scrolled back down to the pictures, studying them. It wasn't in any language he recognized.  _ I know at least three people who might be able to identify this,  _ he thought, sipping his coffee. He startled when the liquid scorched his tongue; he hadn't waited long enough to drink it. The hot sear slowly faded into a buzzy, metallic numbness. He coughed and stood to get a glass of water to ease the burn.

 

          It was after 7 in the evening when Sam finally managed to leave the Johnson County courthouse. His feet and back hurt from standing and pacing in a courtroom and various conference rooms, and his voice was sore from a long day arguing a particularly difficult case, but he felt accomplished and like he had made some good points and progress for his client. Fergus MacLeod, no longer a young man, had a youthful history of liquor store holdups and petty theft. It was an exciting case for young attorney Sam Winchester; the client had been referred to him by none other than FBI Director Richard Roman. Roman swore up and down that MacLeod was at his estate in Shawnee, Kansas the night of the robbery. The images on the tape were fairly unmistakable, but not enough to eliminate reasonable doubt, and with the director of the freaking FBI to back him up, it was basically open and closed. If Sam could manage to get all of the charges dropped, it would be a really important step in his career. It was vital that he impress Roman and receive more referrals to high-class clients like this one.

          The positive to working ridiculous hours was that, by the time Sam drove home that evening, there was almost no traffic left from the rush hour. He stopped for Chinese takeout a few blocks before home, then settled down at his desk in the upstairs office to continue work on his case. It was mostly research at this point, making sure that he had covered all his bases and the opposition wouldn't find a technicality to hang them up on. It was highly unlikely at this point, but he wanted to be certain.

          When he had been at his desk for no more than an hour, his phone started buzzing with an incoming call. He picked it up, glancing at the caller ID: Dean.  _ Crap! I totally forgot about Dean.  _ He swiped to accept the call. “Hey, Bro.”

          “Hey, Sammy. Get my messages?” There was a buzz of background noise coming from Dean’s end. Sounded like he was in an office.

          “Yeah. Sorry man, I've been in court all day, I totally forgot. I think I might know a guy, but I'll have to make a couple calls.”

          “Awesome. Oh, hey, one more thing. The vic had these markings on his shoulder. Well, two vics, actually.”

          “Vics with matching ink? Sounds cult-y.”

          “That’s what we were thinking.”

          “Oh, it's ‘we' now, huh? Somebody warming up to their new partner?”

          “Sam, I have had the Tuesday from hell, so could you not?”

          “It just warms my cold little lawyer heart when my big bro makes friends.”

          “Ew. Anyway. I'm gonna shoot you some pics, could you check those out, too?”

          “Sure thing, Dean. I'll send out a couple emails today and follow up in the AM. Sound good?”

          “Great, yeah. Thanks. We’ll be headed back that way soon, just gotta finish up some paperwork here at the station and we'll head back.”

          “You're coming back tonight? It's getting kinda late, won't the bureau pay for another night?”

          “Probably, but there’s some nerd con going on out here and all the hotels are booked and we totally got gypped.”

          “The Wizard of Oz convention?”

          “Why in the hell do you know that?”

          Sam cleared his throat. “No reason. Anyway, be safe driving back, the weather is supposed to get a little dicey tonight.” 

          “We'll be fine. Thanks again!”

          “You got it, Dean. ‘Night.”

          “‘Night.” The line went silent.

          Sam set his phone on the desk and leaned over to pull his laptop out of its case on the floor. The MacLeod thing could wait until morning; the next court appointment wasn't until noon, anyway. Sam's phone buzzed, and he unlocked the screen with his left hand while opening his laptop with the right. It was the photos Dean mentioned. Both victims had markings the same size and color in the same spot on their left shoulders, right where the seam of a t-shirt might sit. He zoomed in on the swirls while the laptop booted up. They were oblong and a little wavy, almost like a child’s drawing. If a line were drawn to connect them, the three would form an equilateral triangle. 

          “Never seen a tattoo like that,” he muttered absently. The laptop emitted a soft musical tone to indicate that it was awake and ready to go. With a few keystrokes, he emailed all of Dean’s photos to himself, then opened up his contact list to find the folks who may be able to offer some insight.

          One such fellow was an accountant he knew who used to live in Iowa, who had transferred to Kansas City to become an auctioneer of strange and exotic items. Sam knew him because, during his transition, he had conducted a sale for a client that the client had decided after-the-fact they didn't want. They had filed a lawsuit, and that was where Sam came in. Sam had previously only worked as a court-appointed criminal defense lawyer. He had been unprepared for the aggressive world of civil suits. They lost the case, but since then, he had helped the guy draw up a standard contract that would protect him against anything like that happening again. He contacted Sam with fair regularity for legal advice and, once in awhile, even a friendly chat. He might have seen something like what Sam was looking for. He typed up a quick email asking if he had time to talk the next day.

          The only other person he could think of was a guy who had been charged with multiple counts of assault pertaining to ritual cult activity. The guy was nuts, but he claimed that he had the consent of everyone involved in the incident. Unfortunately, “everyone” happened to include two minors whose parents did not consent, and three adults, one of whom who rescinded their consent once the ceremony had started. Sam was a little less comfortable reaching out to this client, but he had been one of his pro bono cases the previous year and Sam had represented him a little over a month ago and managed to keep him out of prison again, landing him instead in community service. He had a feeling he would help, so an email he sent. 

          He was certain there was at least one more client who might be able to help, but it wouldn't come to him right then. Instead of dwelling on it, Sam took to Google to see if he could find any answers on his own.

 

          ----- 

 

          “Have lunch with me today.”

          Sam, sitting on a quiet, out-of-the-way bench in an empty courthouse hall, looked up from his phone; Fergus MacLeod was standing before him, hands at his sides. He was a proper gentleman with a mild English accent, tie always straight, suit always pressed, and just a little bit of dark stubble on his face to ease the nearly uptight visage. He spoke in a deep voice and a calm way that commanded attention, and his words caught Sam off-guard.

          “I'm sorry?”

          “Rather, have lunch with myself and my mother. I'm meeting her at  _ Bristol _ in about half an hour, and the closer it gets the more I dread the thought of having it one-on-one.”

          Sam furrowed a brow. “Oh, uh, I appreciate the offer, Mr. MacLeod, but I -”

          “Please, my friends call me Crowley. And if it’s money you're worried about, I'd be happy to pick up the check.”

          The aforementioned restaurant certainly was not inexpensive. Not that Sam didn't have the money, but he was still attempting to reach out to someone who could help find some answers for his brother. “I appreciate the offer Mister M-- _ Crowley, _ but I do have a lot of work to do over lunch.”

          “Work at the table. Come along, please, I am requesting this as a...personal favor.”

          With a high-profile client like this one, Sam could hardly afford to say “no.” He sighed and stood from the bench. “Alright. I'll meet you there in 30?”

          Crowley sighed in relief. “Thank you. I owe you big-time.”

          As Crowley turned to leave, Sam nodded at him with a resigned smile. He placed his phone into his breast pocket as he walked in the direction of the exit, only to remove it again to check the calendar once he was in his car. The rest of the day should be relatively free, save for a mountain of paperwork waiting for him at home, and he still hadn't heard back from the two gentlemen he believed could help Dean’s case. He typed himself a quick note to call them both once lunch was finished. 

 

_ Bristol _ was a small restaurant on a corner lot at the Town Center Plaza in Leawood. Sam overestimated the drive time and wound up at the restaurant before Crowley. He didn't know what name the reservation was under, so he elected to wait in his car until his client arrived. The wind had begun to blow and the temperature was still dropping, gray clouds only letting sunlight shine in tiny patches on the ground. Sam’s car hummed, the heater blowing heavenly warm air onto him. He had just begun to fiddle with the radio when he saw a black Bentley pull into the parking lot, and out stepped MacLeod.  _ Crowley,  _ Sam reminded himself.

          He reluctantly turned off his car and stepped out into the blustery cold. He pulled his jacket from the passenger seat before he locked the car but didn't bother to put it on before tackling the short walk from his car to the front door, which he then held open for the gentleman he would be joining at a table in just a moment. A hostess showed them to their seats, which were under a large, glassy dome cut into the ceiling. Dim lights hung from silver chains, and the only noise was from the hum of a full restaurant.

          The hostess handed them their menus and promised to return with waters.

          “Mother is running late, as usual,” said Crowley once they were alone.

          “Oh, that's fine,” Sam replied. He picked up his menu to peruse. 

          Crowley did the same. He said, “Shall we order a starter?”

          “Um, if you would like. I don't really know what to get, I don't come here often. It's a little out of the way for me.”

          “Surely you must do plenty of travelling, your line of work.”

          “Not really. Most of my clients are in a pretty small cluster right around the Shawnee area. In fact I rarely go to any other courthouse than the Johnson County one.”

         Crowley  _ tisked  _ softly. “Shame. There are so many lovely restaurants to try in this area. You know, Samuel - may I call you Samuel?”

          “Just Sam is fine.”

          “Lovely.  _ Sam.  _ I have been very impressed with you these past couple of weeks. I'd be happy to recommend you to friends and colleagues. We could use a guy like you: clever, quick, quite knowledgeable. Possibly the best attorney I've ever had. And somehow all of these at such a young age. How do you do it?”

          Sam tried not to look surprised at the comment. He wouldn't have thought that a wealthy person such as Fergus “Crowley” MacLeod would consider him a top-notch lawyer. Certainly he had paid much larger sums for much more talented counsel in the past. He wouldn't reject that type of compliment, though. “I uh...I guess this is just always something I have wanted to do? Defend justice, make sure everyone has a fair chance against the system, you know?”

          “I see. So it's a passion of sorts, then, yes?”

          Sam was considering how to discuss his law background without launching into an unabridged backstory, but he was saved by a woman’s voice from behind him interrupting the thought.

          “Fergus! Darling!”

          Judging by the sigh Crowley huffed, the woman must be  _ mummy dearest. _ “Hello, Mother.”

          “I'm so glad you could finally make it, dear! And who's this?” She spoke with a thick, Scottish accent, and she had moved into Sam’s line of sight to take her seat. She looked surprisingly young, with wavy red hair and dark green eyes and a chin that looked more pointed when she smiled.

          “Mother, this is my friend Sam. Sam, this is my Mother.”

          “Rowena,” she extended a hand over the table, which Sam shook as he smiled.

          “Pleasure,” he said.

          “Now, what have we ordered?” She inquired, picking up her own menu and skimming the contents very quickly.

          “We were just discussing starters.” As Crowley spoke, he gave Sam a pointed look. “Any input?”

          Rowena gave a small gasp at her menu. “Whoever heard of lobster corn dogs?! Do those really exist? Fergus I thought you said this was a  _ nice _ place to eat.”

          “It is, Mother. Would you consider the shrimp cocktail?”

          “Well certainly before I would consider anything with battered lobster in it!”

          “Then it's settled. Sam, any suggestions?”

          Sam looked back down at his menu, thoughtfully. “Salmon flatbread sounds nice.”

          “Then we'll get both,” Crowley decided.

          Sam’s phone buzzed, and he set the menu down in favor of removing the mobile device again from his pocket. Their waitress arrived with water, and Sam looked at the message while Crowley ordered.

          It was a text from Dean:  _ Liberty just called. Neighboring PD found a body matching the exact wounds and marks as our first vic about 8 months ago. Let me know what you got. _

          “Now, what could be so urgent that we are using our phone at the lunch table?” Asked Rowena, looking over at Sam with her hands folded below her chin.

          “Oh, it's just this case my brother asked for some help with.”

          “Case?”

          “His brother is in the FBI,” Crowley offered.

_ Huh. Didn't know he knew that. Makes sense if he's good friends with Roman.  _ “He's right. Dean, that's my brother, came across a weird clue a couple days ago and asked me to help track down some info for him.”

          “What kind of weird clue?”

          “Mother, I'm sure he doesn't want to discuss this over his lunch break.”

          “Oh no, it's fine. They found a box with some sort of runes or something on it, something I've never seen before. I know a couple of people who might be able to tell me what it is, but so far they haven't responded to my messages.”

          An expression akin to excitement briefly crossed Rowena’s face, and she smiled. “Might I take a look? I studied mythology and magics for several years, so I happen to know a thing or two about ancient languages.”

          Sam’s eyebrows raised, and he said “Uh, sure. Yeah, that would be great actually.” He exited the text thread to avoid her accidentally scrolling through the conversation and opened the photo from the gallery. He handed the phone to Rowena.

          She stared at the image thoughtfully for a moment, before zooming in on the text. “Hmm. Very strange, indeed. This almost looks Latin, but these symbols here are similar to a Hebrew word, and most of these I don't even recognize at all. It's like a big jumbled mess.” She returned the phone. “I might be able to translate some of the text if I had a key.”

          “A key?”

          “Yes, like a translation book. But you wouldn't find one like that in any library around here. I'd be happy to help. Here,” she pulled a small notepad and a pen from her purse and scribbled a number on it. “My cell. Text me the photos and I'll see if I can find a key somewhere.” She tore the page out and handed it to Sam.

         He accepted and folded the paper before placing it in his pocket, along with the phone. “Thank you! I will definitely do that.” He breathed a small sigh of relief.

 

          -----

 

          ‘ _ I might have a lead on your box.’  _ Sam shot his brother a quick message on his way home from court, stopped at a traffic light.

          ‘ _ Great! What's the word?’ _

__ The light was green, so Sam tapped the “call” button next to Dean’s photo at the top of the message thread. The line rang twice before Dean’s voice came through.

          “Whatchu got?”

          “Good news. I met someone who I think can help translate whatever that writing is. She seemed to recognize most of it and said if she can find a book to help her, we’re solid.”

          “Okay….sounds like you've got a ‘but' coming…”

          “But...I think she might be a witch.”

          “A what now?!”

          “Yeah. I mean, I just met her today, but her son is my 52 year old client and she doesn't look a day over 40.”

          “Oh yeah? Sounds like a lady I'd like to meet.”

          “Dean.”

          “Sorry. Anyway, witches never do something for nothing. What's she want?”

          “I haven't found that out yet. She gave me her number and said to send her pics.”

          “A little early in the relationship for that, don't you think?”

          “Of the evidence. Asshole.”

          “Evidence of your--”

          “--Dean I swear to god.”

          Dean chuckled on the other end. He was such a pain. “Okay, Sammy. Let me know when you've got something.”

          “Will do. Bye Dean.”

          “Thanks bro. Ciao.”

          Sam pulled into his driveway just as he bid his brother farewell. He took a moment to send Rowena the promised photos before exiting his car, fighting the wind to keep the door from slamming on his legs while he gathered his briefcase and laptop bag, then rushed inside.

 

          Not 30 minutes had passed when his phone buzzed again. Rowena had messaged him already, and it looked good.

          ‘ _ Good news and bad news, I'm afraid. ~Rowena’ _

_           ‘Go ahead.’ _

_           ‘Good news is, I found the exact tome I need! ~Rowena’ _

_           ‘And the bad?’ _

_           ‘The only copy I could find is registered to a school librarian. ~Rowena’ _

_           ‘That doesn't sound like bad news at all.’ _

_           ‘…….in California. ~Rowena’ _

_           ‘Oh. Well, can we get an ebook or something?’ _

_           ‘The text is very old. I searched and searched for a digital copy, mind you. I'll admit it was the first book I thought of when I saw the photo today at tea, but I wanted to be sure before I told ye. I've tried calling the library, but the phone rings for days and nobody answers. ~Rowena’ _

_           ‘Got it. If you give me the info, I'll try some in the AM.’ _

_           ‘Of course, Dear. ~Rowena’ _

 

__ Sam jotted down the contact info she sent to him and tucked it into the outermost pocket of his laptop bag for the next day. Feeling accomplished, he opted for a hot shower and a nice cup of tea for the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAYSO  
> I am SUPER excited to be writing Rowena, even if it's just for a chapter. She's one of my favorite characters and she always bring an unexpected element to the story, whenever she pops up. We all know she never works without asking for something in return, though! So...what could it be? Why is she offering to help our Sammy and co. out this chapter? And, of course, why is there only one copy of this strange book and what's it doing all the way in California?  
> Well, what if I told you I have very selfish reasons for sending the entourage to the high desert because of hilarious and fun storytelling ideas? You'll only find out if you keep reading...!  
> Also I'm rally starting to see some traction building with this story, and I'm really excited to hear everyone's thoughts and grateful for the ever incoming love for this story. You guys are awesome, thanks so much!


	6. Remember that the most valuable antique is dear Cas.

**Chapter Six: “Remember that the most valuable antique is dear Cas.”**

 

Wednesday morning, Dean and Cas prepared to make their way back to Kansas City. To Cas’ great relief, Dean did not consume massive quantities of alcohol the night before. He would later explain to Cas that he didn’t make it a habit to get ‘trashed’ on work nights, which apparently was how he would describe his behavior and condition on Monday night.

Hearing the shower water cease in the restroom, Cas stood, eyes still on the television set, and pushed the chair he’d been using back under the desk. He didn’t get much of an opportunity to engage in  activity so lacking in productivity during his time at Quantico, so as he waited for Dean to be ready to leave, he indulged. It was interesting seeing all the different types of programming on the television, even on the limited hotel channels. A reality show was currently airing on one network, full of people who seemed to bicker and feud for the most inane reasons. One woman was furious with another for borrowing a clothing garment, even though apparently permission to do so had been given explicitly not too long before the offending incident.  It was with somewhat disengaged curiosity that he allowed himself to stare at the events on the screen, before finally deciding that there was no point to this other than what must be the human desire to engage in nonsensical drama. He switched the channel. Where he landed, on the television now was a middle-aged man with spiked, dyed hair, and it appeared his facial hair was colored as well. The man was consuming a sandwich, from which greasy sauce dripped out of the bottom when he bit into it. Cas grimaced at that; despite his limited experience with eating and food in general, this meal (if one could call it that) looked particularly harmful to human health as well as visually repulsive. The man described the bite as ‘burger-licious,’ a term Cas had never heard before. What could he mean by  _ burger-licious _ ? Did he simply lack the vocabulary to appropriately describe his food? It was a common phenomenon for people to add nonsensical suffixes to words they couldn’t find a better substitute for. Cas felt the word the man was searching for could be something along the lines of  _ scrumptious _ or even as simple as  _ flavorful _ . The addition of - _ licious _ just didn’t make any sense!

The restroom door opened, and Cas looked up to see Dean, dressed and ready to go. His hair was still somewhat wet from the shower and a little wild, like he had dried it with a towel and hardly bothered to straighten it afterward.

“Ready, Freddy?” He said, tossing his towel into the sink.

With a squint, Cas said, “What?”

“Are you ready. To go.” Dean smiled, stiffly. “It’s just an expression.”

“Ah, yes. I am ‘ready Freddy.’”

“No, you don’t...nevermind.” Dean chuckled. Yes, his mood was notably better. “Let’s hit the road.”

The lobby downstairs was abuzz with bodies and voices taking advantage of the free continental breakfast. Cas observed several young girls wearing checkered blue dresses with glittering red shoes as Dean paid for their room, and several other patrons were wearing graphic t-shirts with references to not being in Kansas (which was peculiar, because they definitely were in Kansas) and several quotes about yellow brick roads. He briefly considered asking Dean about all of the peculiar apparel, but an air of unease had descended upon his partner once downstairs and Cas did not wish to upend his mood. Dean was not grumbling to himself for the first time their entire trip, and Cas would certainly not be the reason he started doing it again.

 

Cas sat quietly while Dean fiddled with the rental car radio, flipping restlessly through stations as they cruised smoothly down the highway. In the few days they had spent together, Cas had picked up several peculiar things about Dean, for instance how he always needed something to focus on, like a radio dial, or a cell phone, a piece of evidence...something to have his eyes and hands fixed on. He was mostly quiet, and if Cas didn’t know better he might describe the man as stoic. But, after spending only days with him, Cas was beginning to see fidgety little habits that could almost be described as nervous: the way he fiddled with keys in his pocket while other people spoke, the way he tapped fingers on his leg, on his desk, on a doorway...anywhere that fingers could tap. He jiggled his leg while sitting. Constantly adjusted. Swayed. Shifted weight from one foot to another. The way he obsessively changed the radio station on a drive with a Rookie.

It didn’t bother Cas necessarily; rather, it piqued his curiosity. Dean Winchester, the purported strong and silent type, was a fidgeter.

“Gah, freakin’ backwoods country  _ bullshit, _ ” Dean grunted, still tuning. Well, the break from grumbling was nice while it lasted.

“We don’t have to listen to the radio,” Cas said.

“Oh yeah, and sit in silence waiting for you to inevitably try to start a game of  _ get to know each other _ ? I don’t think so.”

Cas felt mildly slighted. Certainly he had done a fair job of showing he could be a quiet, companionable passenger on their drive out. He made little effort to mask the indignance in his tone when he spoke. “Getting to know each other may be a good idea if we are going to continue working together.”

Dean just  _ hmed _ sharply and settled on a radio station with the volume low, replacing his right hand on the steering wheel.

“Why don’t you like having a partner?”

Dean worked his jaw and glanced out his window. He gave Cas a quick, sideways look. “Really?”

“I’ll admit I’m curious, but I believe it’s important for me to know.”

“Why in the hell should that matter to you? I don’t need to like you. We just need to work together to get shit done.” Dean adjusted, sitting further back in his seat and more upright. More fidgeting.

“Actually, studies show that partners who care for each other socially have better communication between them and thus work more proficiently in the field.”

“Yeah, well, personal experience has shown otherwise.”

“So you struggle with communication?”

“I--what? No, I’m just saying that just because you like your partner does  _ no _ t mean you’re gonna make a better team.”

Cas furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand.”

Another one of Dean’s little characteristics that Cas was noticing was that he liked to give annoyingly cryptic answers, avoid questions, and oten change the subject altogether any time he might have to do any actual introspection. “I--look, trust me, alright? In this life, this work we do… you can’t afford attachments.You just gotta...let go. Focus on what matters. You won’t get anything done if you’re worried about a stupid other half you gotta take care of all the time.”

Turning his gaze to the road ahead, Cas’ eyes narrowed. Dean was purposefully trying to confuse him. With burning intensity, Cas stared and adjusted in his seat to face Dean. He crossed his arms and held his ground.

The unwavering gaze didn’t seem to have an effect for a moment or two...until Dean apparently caught it in the corner of his eye and glanced in Cas’ direction. He cleared his throat and looked back through the windshield, but now he evidently knew Cas was waiting for a real answer. It took less time than Cas thought it might to work. With a reluctant sigh, Dean conceded. “Alright. I’ll tell you the freakin’ story, okay?”

“Please.”

“I had this partner. Agent Braeden. Quick. Smart. Beautiful. There was...well, I made a bad judgment call. Should have been a routine snag n’ bag. Got a demon. And ah…” Dean’s voice cracked and he trailed off, swallowing audibly. His jaw looked tight, cheeks flush. Cas waited, patiently, while Dean worked up his next words, studying the road.

Finally, Dean exhaled and continued. “Got distracted. Weren’t focused on the job. Too relaxed. We were on our way back to the station and we were talking instead of paying attention. She...she had this kid. Smart like her. And she was telling me a story and I...neither one of us heard it get out. It broke through the back seat, and while we were trying to kill it, I just...I wasn’t paying attention. I was more...I was more focused on protecting her. I ran a red light and…” another exhale, this one shakier. “She didn’t survive. We were...she would have been fine. She insisted that we keep it alive to take it back for questioning. I had a bad feeling in my gut about it, but I listened because I wanted her to like me. I liked her a lot. So stupid.”

He cleared his throat and was quiet for a long pause, staring at the road. His eyes were glassy and knuckles white. That story, reliving it...Cas realized that it was a deeper attachment than his partner was letting on. It looked like just talking about it in a few short words had taken a physical toll on him.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Cas said, hoping his tone was gentle.

Dean cleared his throat again, “S’fine, whatever. Just goes to show, you shouldn’t get too invested. Always leads to trouble. Like Sam and his delinquent girlfriend he’s always bailing out. Thinks I don’t know, but I know.”

“Sam, your brother? The lawyer?”

Dean scoffed and, unsurprisingly, grasped strongly for the change of subject. “Yeah, the very same. Only bro I got. He’s had it for this girl, Ruby, for as long as I can remember. She is nothing but trouble. They were together for a minute back in like ‘07. She’s cute, whatever, but she is a hot mess. Always getting arrested for stupid stuff; shoplifting, pickpocketing, and I don’t even know how many times she’s been caught with illegal narcotics.” Dean chuckled. “Totally not Sammy’s type. He’s never been into  _ bad girls _ , except for this one. And she’s just one string of bad news after another.”

“So you disapprove of their relationship?”

“Disapprove? Hell yes I do! That’s why he didn’t tell me when he met her last week. Just happens I know a guy who works at the station where he bailed her out. He only let me know because he’s a nosey little douche and he hates my brother.”

“Was he hoping to gain a reaction from you by sharing the information?”

“Hell if I know.  Who cares what his motivation was? It’s good to be informed, even if the information comes from a bad place. In this case an asshole.”

“Is that the woman who answered my telephone call that morning?”

“Probably. Who knows.”

Cas nodded slowly. Yet another thing he was learning about Dean was that he was very critical of others. He appeared to have no trust in anybody other than himself, and under such circumstances it was puzzling why he would spend so much time impairing his thoughts and abilities with alcohol.

A chipper  _ ring _ began singing from Dean’s coat pocket. He grabbed his cell phone and glanced at the caller ID. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered, and he flipped open the phone. “Give me good news.”

Quiet chatter, a man’s voice, and Dean said, “Seriously?”

More chatter. “Alright, looks like we’re taking a little vacay. Thanks.” He hung up and replaced the phone.

“The devil?”

“Huh? Oh, it’s a saying, like how if you talk about someone you’re bound to see or hear from them like immediately. I think it’s based on like an old religious belief. Like people didn’t talk about the devil because if you say his name he appears or something like that.”

“Oh, yes I am familiar with that superstition. It’s entirely false, of course. Satan did not answer to summoning when he was free, and now that he is imprisoned he can not appear no matter what you say.”

“I...guess I never thought too much about it.” Dean nodded slowly with a shrug. “Anywho, that was my brother. He’s got a lead on our case, but it’s gonna take us out of state.”

“How far out of state?”

“California.”

“That is quite far. What could anything in California have to do with a case here?”

“Sam said he found someone who can translate the writing on that box. Only problem is, it’s in code and they need a key. Bigger problem is, the text is apparently so ancient that there’s no e-book for it so we gotta go pick it up from a library.”

“And the only copy is in California?”

“Yeah, some high school library, which is...bizarre. They must have an  _ advanced mythology _ class there or somethin’.”

Cas nodded. “It would make sense. California is very heavy with supernatural activity, even more so than here.”

“Guess I never really thought about it. It’s by Baker, so I can see that huge thermometer and check one off my bucket list while we’re there. Score.”

“You want to see a giant thermometer before you die? That is the type of thing that makes your list?”

“I mean…” Dean shrugged. “There’s all sorts of stuff I wanna do. It’s not JUST see the World’s Tallest Thermometer, but I mean...that one’s on there. What’s wrong with that?!”

“I was not implying that anything was wrong with it. Just curious as to what type of thing someone might have on a list of things to do before they die. When I was at the academy, several students told me that activities such as bungee jumping and skydiving were on their...bucket lists.”

“Hah! That’ll change once they get in the field. I see and do enough unnatural things on a day-to-day basis, don’t need to subject myself to anymore. If we were meant to fly, we’d have wings.”

“But I do have wings, Dean.”

“I meant hum--wait, you do?”

“Yes. They are not visible to the human eye as they exist on another plane. Angels have access to multiple planes simultaneously, thus allowing me to utilise them here to a certain extent.”

“So does that mean you can...you can fly?!”

Cas cocked his head slightly, trying to think of how he could word his angelic form of travel in a way that Dean might understand. “Not exactly. I travel through interdimensional rifts created on the fourth plane of existence, the one that is invisible to humans. At least, most of you. Some humans can see this dimension, but the human brain is incapable of comprehending the visuals associated with four dimensions so they do not understand what they are seeing. Some see this while awake, others perceive it only in dreams, so--”

Cas paused when the look on Dean’s face indicated lack of understanding. “When I beat my wings it creates a tunnel through the fourth dimension and creates a fold that enables me to move from one place to another.”

“Like a warp drive?” Dean’s question was surprisingly enthusiastic. And surprisingly close to what Cas was trying to explain, from what little he understood about Star Trek.

“Somewhat like that, yes.”

“Sweet! So wait - you have wings but you don’t, like,  _ fly _ fly?”

“No, I do not propel myself from the earth and into the air as a bird or a plane might.”

“So if you can’t fly, and you do have wings, then things without wings are definitely not meant to fly. That settles that.” Dean gave a self-satisfied nod.

“You’re correct, your anatomy is not intended for flight. But travel by airplane has proven to be a very efficient and safe method of travel, safer even than the car we are currently in.”

“Yeah but it’s still not natural. This is more natural than that.”

Cas wasn’t sure what response Dean wanted from him, so he simply gave an agreeing nod and fell silent.

 

\-----

 

“Flying is not natural…” Dean was muttering this softly again and again, hands forcibly relaxed against his thighs. He and Cas had booked a last-minute flight to Bakersfield, California, and Dean’s comments that afternoon in the car were starting to make more sense.

He was terrified of flying. Not just a little nervous or uneasy about it; Dean was visibly perspiring, his heart rate was significantly elevated, and there was a vein on his forehead that had become dark and enlarged. It was the early stages of a panic attack.

“Dean, are you okay?” Cas asked him, quietly, while the only two other passengers shuffled and buckled behind them. They hadn’t even begun moving yet, but apparently just boarding the plane had stricken Agent Winchester horribly.

“I’m fine, thanks. It’s just...it’s really weird to me that people travel like this.” He had his head pressed to the back of his seat, the muscles in his neck tense.

“You are putting yourself into a state of panic,” Cas replied, softly. “If you don’t relax, you’re only going to make it worse.”

“Panic? Hah!” The false laugh was loud and high-pitched. “It’s not panic, man, it’s disbelief. I’m fine.”

“Clearly, you are not.”

“Cas I’m gonna punch you in the throat if you don’t drop it.”

Cas’ eyebrow twitched upward, and he bit back any retort. Dean would have very little luck subduing Cas physically, which he’d tried to explain the night that Dean was drunk in the hotel room threatening his safety, but clearly the conversation hadn’t stuck with him. And this was certainly not the time to push the issue. Even if the temptation to do so  _ did _ flutter for a moment within him.

Instead, he asked, “Do you need a drink of water?” He’d heard that cold water could help someone calm down when they were feeling or behaving irrationally. He was unable to experience it himself, but many stressed out college students swore by the home remedy, and considering that a majority of human body mass was composed of water, it was a remedy that made sense.

“I don’t need a drink of water, no.”

Except apparently for Dean.

“You should have some anyway, you’re probably still dehydrated.”

“I could use a drink of whiskey, that would definitely improve my mood.” The expression on his face was of feigned flippancy or annoyance, but he couldn’t hide the slight ghostly tinge or the trembling of his fingers, try as he might to press them into his slacks and still them.

“We are currently on duty, Dean, I do not believe it would be appropriate to drink alcohol at this time.”

“I know that, you narc!  _ Jesus _ will you get off my case for like five seconds?”

“I’m only trying to help.” His tone was unintentionally biting, but it did the trick and Dean blanched for a moment before speaking again.

“I--yeah, I get it.” Dean took a deep breath. “Sorry, man. Just...just chill, okay?”

It was Agent Winchester who was in apparent need of ‘chilling,’ but again Cas held his tongue and busied himself studying the bare bones metal frame of the aircraft

 

It was a long wait for the plane to begin moving, and longer still for it to taxi about on its way to the runway. Since it was a small, private craft using a commercial airport runway, apparently they weren’t high on the tarmac waitlist. While the craft moved around at a slow speed, Dean seemed to relax a little. His fists and jaw unclenched, and some color returned to his face.

When takeoff began, however, and their speed increased significantly, Dean’s hands flew to the armrests and clenched with fervor. Then, during liftoff, he actually closed his eyes and began taking slow, deep, inhalations. Cas turned slightly in his seat; he had never seen a person so terrified of something so mundane. Not even during his Quantico days when, during one exam, a student passed out next to a cadaver. Aforementioned student never showed any signs of panic; he had simply fainted at the sight of blood.

Dean, however, could be described as being under extreme duress. Cas was learning that words did very little for the man, so he did the only other thing he could think of: he placed his hand on Dean’s arm.

With a slight start, Dean opened his eyes and glanced at his arm. He gave a short laugh and patted Cas’ hand. Apparently, the gesture had worked. Dean rested his hand there for a moment, then shook his head and laughed again before lifting the appendage and placing it back onto Cas’ side of the armrest. 

With a peculiar shudder, Cas found himself slightly disappointed at the loss of contact. He had shaken hands with many people during his time on Earth, and he’d helped Dean get out of his day clothes a couple of nights ago when he stumbled into their room intoxicated, but he hadn’t initiated contact simply for contact’s sake before. Not with anyone. For the first time, he felt a closeness with someone.

The people Cas had encountered in the past few years surrounded themselves with other people, friends, that they were comfortable with. People they reached out to for advice, for companionship. It was only in that moment that Cas began to realize that he didn’t really have that type of relationship with anyone. He had spent all his time working to accomplish a goal, and now, in the quiet  _ humm _ of the airplane, it dawned on him that he wanted a friend.

Sure, Dean had been a bit icy to Castiel the past few days. They hadn’t known each other very long. Cas was certain it would take more time still for Dean to get comfortable around him. He had an inkling, though, a  _ gut feeling _ , so to speak, that it would happen eventually. Like him and Dean had a connection, and he’d been placed with him for a reason.

“Dude, what?”

Cas had been staring. “Nothing, just thinking.”

“Yeah? Care to share?”

It wasn’t often people asked Cas to talk about himself, or to share his thoughts. He usually had to force his words into conversation; people liked to talk, share their opinions, ideas, thoughts, but rarely asked for his. It made him smile. “I was contemplating this ‘bucket list’ you mentioned.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose. “Yeah? Ideas of your own?”

“It is likely I will not die for a very long time. I don’t know if it’s necessary for me to make one.”

“...but?”

“...but, if I were to make one, perhaps seeing the World’s Largest Thermometer--”

“Tallest.”

“--Tallest Thermometer might be on it.”

At this, Dean smiled. “Awesome. How ‘bout that, we’ll check one off together, huh?”

The words were warm. Dean’s tone toward him really was beginning to change. “I imagine that’s something friends might do.”

“Wha’ssat mean?”

“Dean, could we be friends?”

Dean looked at Castiel, turning slightly in his seat. His eyes narrowed.

“Unless you would consider that an unaffordable ‘attachment,’” Cas remedied. He suddenly wished he hadn’t asked the question. It seemed juvenile hearing it aloud.

“Right,” Dean’s expression didn’t change, but he exhaled and nodded slightly. “But, I mean, we could try the ‘friends’ thing, if you want. After all, you’re the first person I’ve met who has Baker on their bucket list.” His tone was critical, but in sharp contrast there was an upward turn to the corners of his mouth, almost a smug expression.

Cas smiled anyway. “I would like that very much.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we see Dean as a real life human being and not a drinking, angry, puke machine! I loved writing Cas' perspective in this chapter. I know the chapters are short with long periods of time between posting, but now that work isn't going to be consuming my entire life I should have the time I used to have to work on this sucker. It's gonna be awesome, thanks to everyone who is still reading! I am happy to have you on!


	7. To me, California is all about rest, relaxation, and Dean.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's a night out in the high desert? Beautiful, though exhausting!

**Chapter Seven: “To me, California is all about rest, relaxation, and Dean."**

****

When they were finally able to get off the damn plane, Dean felt his lungs open up and his shoulders relax. Exhaustion swept over him as the adrenaline from the flight began to wear off. The ‘airport’ was quite small, really just a long strip of tarmac brightly contrasting the reddish-brown desert sand, shining almost gold in the moonlight. There were a couple of warehouse-like buildings and an air traffic control tower, but very little sign of civilisation otherwise. The plane let its few passengers out directly onto the runway. Night had fallen, and a crisp, harsh wind gusted and blew sand into his face. Dean sputtered and covered his face with his arm.

“I will call a taxi,” Cas offered, speaking loudly over the wind.

Dean nodded, grateful. His bones felt tired. He wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and pass out. A dull ache had begun working up from his shoulders into his head, and he closed his eyes while Cas made the phone call.

Coyotes howled in the distance. Dean ventured a glance at the land from behind his arm. The desert floor was brightly lit by the moon, and scraggly-looking bushes and trees were illuminated not too far off. They looked creepy in the white light, like creatures clawing from under the soil. A chill swept over Dean, which he blamed on the cool night air. Beyond the trees and bushes, off on the horizon, mountains sprung up, looking purplish-black against a velvety sky.

The sky itself was...pretty breathtaking, actually. Stars smattered vividly in every direction, more than he had ever seen in his life. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw more and more of them, glistening. It would have been peaceful, if not for the whistling wind and Cas shouting over it to speak on his cell.

“The taxi will arrive shortly,” Cas promised. He flipped his phone shut with a  _ snap. _

Dean looked away from the mesmerising scenery to glance at his partner and nod. “Awesome. I’m tanked.”

He supported some of his weight on the handle of his suitcase; the plastic bent slightly but didn’t give otherwise.

“This is a very lovely part of the country,” Cas observed, taking in their surroundings.

“Really is,” Dean agreed. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here before. Never thought there would be much to see.”

They stood in silence, Dean working his hardest just to keep his eyes open. Another coyote howl sounded, followed shortly by yet another, which sounded much closer. As the last car pulled away from the rocky lot, the coyotes and crickets were all that could be heard.

Another strong wind kicked up more sand and dirt, and it pelted Dean in the face; it stung where his skin was still healing by his left eye and he hissed, swiftly covering the spot with his hand. “Geez! Could do without the mini sandstorms.”

“It is notoriously windy here,” Cas said. “Especially during this time of year.”

It wasn’t cold like it was back home, but there was definitely a chill about, and the constantly moving air wasn’t helping matters. Dean pulled his blazer closed at his chest, shivering again. “How long did you say until that taxi arrived?”

“Approximately 10 minutes was his estimation.”

Dean glanced at his watch. “Ok that was about 8 minutes ago. Cool.”

****

Two minutes passed. The taxi hadn’t arrived yet. 

****

Dean sighed and shifted his weight; dirt crunched under his suitcase when it moved with him. “Dude,” he mumbled, “I’m about to literally die of exhaustion right now. I wish that cabby would hurry up.”

“I’m sure it won’t be much longer,” Cas said. His tone was assuring and even, and it helped wash some tension from Dean. It was a sharp contrast to the way it had unnerved him just a few days ago. He must be getting used to the unusual speech pattern.

“How would you travel if I wasn’t with you?” Dean inquired, the second half of his sentence somewhat shrouded in  _ yawn _ .

“I would still use corporeal transportation, such as a vehicle or walking,” Cas said. “I promised my brothers that I would try to ‘fit in’ while I was here, and that included doing things like driving a car.”

Dean hummed softly and nodded. The wind was letting up a little, so he dared to rest his hand by his side. The clear sky was beginning to cloud up a little, darkening the surrounding scenery. “What else do ya gotta do? To fit in, I mean?”

Cas was quiet for a moment, contemplation on his features. “This human form is the most obvious way in which I’ve adapted,” he started. “In Heaven, I don’t have a physical body as I do here. It would be difficult, however, to conduct investigative work in my true form. Humans cannot perceive me in my entirety, and my voice would pierce your eardrums.”

Dean stared at him and gave a slow, subtle nod. “‘Kay. That’s...not the answer I was expecting. I thought you were gonna say like...wearing clothes...or something.”

“Clothes are also new to me.”

“I figured. You do know that people, humans, we...we don’t exactly wear the same outfit day in and out.”

Cas glanced down at his attire, smoothing down his khaki-colored trench coat. His face bore a soft frown, and it was the most human expression Dean had seen him make yet. 

“I did not think there was anything wrong with these clothes,” he finally said. His voice was still soft, but now peculiarly unsure.

Dean wondered if he’d insulted the guy, and he hurried to correct. “No no, there’s nothing necessarily  _ wrong _ with them, Cas,” he gestured vaguely at him, “I mean, they’re...they suit you. For sure. But I don’t think a change of wardrobe now and then would be the worst thing.”

“You think I should remedy my dress?”

“Not remedy, I mean, just…” Dean was glad it was dark; for some reason, this conversation was making him flustered and his cheeks felt hot. “Just, you know. Mix it up a little. Try a different tie, new shoes...that sort of thing.”

The crease between Cas’ brows deepened, as did his frown.

“Hey, man, you look good,” Dean tried again. “Don’t...I’m sorry, I wasn’t bashin’ you. Please don’t take it the wrong way.”

Cas looked up at him and nodded, but his expression didn’t change. “I believe I understand.”

Dean cleared his throat and looked back at his watch; it had now been more than 20 minutes since the taxi driver had promised Cas he’d arrive.

What little breeze was left in the air had stilled completely, and a damp, earthy smell was beginning to rise. It was a fresh, pleasing smell, but it was...foreboding. The moonlight was slowly dimming behind bigger, darker clouds than the friendly ones gathering before.

When the first  _ crack _ of thunder sounded, Cas said, “I believe it is about to rain.”

“Go freakin’ figure. In a place it never rains in the middle of the damn night, waiting on a missing taxi.” Dean muttered and sighed. “How far’s the hotel? Like two miles?”

“If I recall correctly, yes.”

“Alright. We’re walkin’.”

“We can call the taxi service again Dean, perhaps the driver is lost.”

“Oh what, you think he went to the other airport? The other terminal?

Cas nodded shortly, and said, “I suppose you have a point. I don’t mind walking, but you seem very tired.”

“S’good, I’ll be fine.” Dean said. “Let’s go.”

As they began their trek down the dirt road, the air grew warmer and the petrichor heavier. Dean’s suitcase wouldn’t roll in the dirt, so he had to carry it. The mixture of clothes and paper files was...a lot heavier than he remembered it being when they left Kansas. His right arm ached, both from strain and probably because he was so tired he could barely see straight. He couldn’t remember the last time he was that worn out. A pulsating, pounding pain was resonating on the entire left side of his face where he’d been pummeled by that absolute Hulk of a teenager.  _ What I wouldn’t do for a bottle of aspirin. _

“Your luggage appears to be burdening you significantly,” Cas observed.

Dean just grunted in response. “All these freakin’ files I gotta carry around,” he muttered. He’d stuffed his briefcase into his bag before boarding the plane to make matters easier. He liked to travel pretty light but had underestimated the combined weight of personal belongings and a freaking briefcase full of paper. When did paper get so heavy?

“I can carry it for you,” Cas offered.

“I got it man, it’s cool.”

“Dean, you appear quite uncomfortable. Please allow me to help.”

Dean paused for a moment in his tracks and regarded the angel; he had traveled with nothing. It made sense; the guy didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, no need to brush his teeth or shower or even change his damn clothes. Of course he didn’t need to bring anything; Dean was hoarding the paperwork. After a moment more of thought, Dean’s aching body made the decision for him.

“Alright. Thanks.” He set the bag down on the ground; he’d never admit how relieved he felt doing so.

With what looked like the flick of a wrist, Cas hauled the entire thing up onto his left shoulder with one hand.

_ Whoa _ . Dude was strong.

****

They found asphalt not too far off; at least they wouldn’t be trampling through the mud in the middle of the night in the dark. He glanced back at Cas, who appeared to be doing just fine carrying the suitcase on his shoulder. It looked like it didn’t weigh a thing. As they came up over a steep hill, city lights became visible not too far away. Dean sighed with relief. As if they knew rest was coming, the aching in his legs subsided somewhat, and he picked up the pace.

Town was just close enough, because it was as they passed the first signs of civilisation that the rain started pattering down,  _ tinkling _ softly on the tin roofs of convenience stores they passed. It wasn’t at all how he was expecting it to be; the drops were small and warm, not the cold, heavy rain that surely would have showered down and drenched them in Kansas. The faint rain smell exploded into a symphony of wet dirt and fresh air that was actually somewhat intoxicating. Dean had never experienced anything like it back home. The smell itself was fairly similar, yet...different. Cleaner. Less muddy, more like sky and warm stone.

It was over pretty much as soon as it started, only a few dark spots on the shoulders and sleeves of his blazer to indicate the shower had happened. 

The dull, red lights of the  _ Wills Fargo Motel _ shone just down the road.

“Oh, thank god,” Dean muttered.

Check-in was quick, the old man behind the counter pleasant and quiet as he took Dean’s credit card and handed them their room keys. The rooms had outside access; facing the parking lot in the back was a row of sand-colored adobe arches, and behind each arch sat a small window shielded by blue curtains. The room doors matched the color of the curtains.

Dean and Cas walked down the parking lot until they came to their room: 101. Easy to remember. Dean opened the door, and the first thing he noticed was the white, tile floor. Interesting. He’d never stayed in a room with tile before. He moved into the room and held the door for Cas, who nodded with a quiet, “Thank you.” 

The TV stand was a cheap-looking wood veneer with an old-school box TV on it. Dean chuckled at that.

When his gaze swept around to the other side of the room, he nearly wept; two beds. They were dressed in the ugliest bedspreads, brownish-yellow with dark red boxes containing different yellow patterns within them. But there were  _ two _ of them. Dean closed and deadbolted the door and kicked his shoes off with fervor. The pleasant rain-smell had followed them into the room, and he breathed deeply and sighed.

“Awesome.”

He hurried to change into pajamas. When he came out of the restroom, Cas was standing by the window with one curtain pulled back slightly, gazing into the parking lot. The mountains were visible in the distance from their room, Dean noticed, and it was a very pretty view.

“What are you gonna do all night?” Dean asked, crawling under the covers. The sheets weren’t exactly soft, but Dean couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

“I will watch you sleep,” Cas answered.

Dean scrunched his eyebrows. “Uh..wow. Ok. Hey, Cas?”

Cas dropped the curtain and turned to face him. “Yes, Dean?”

“Could you maybe...not do that?”

Cas bowed his head slightly. “Of course. I forget that some people find that...unnerving. My roommate at Quantico did not seem to mind, the few times I did not busy myself with studying during the night.”

“It’s just...I dunno, man, it’s just weird. I think most people don’t like being watched. Period. Much less while they’re sleeping. Could you like watch TV or somethin’?”

“Whatever will make you happy, Dean.”

With a small laugh, Dean said, “Alright. Thanks.” He pushed the switch on the bedside lamp, effectively darkening his half of the room. It was a little after 1AM now. The walk had really shifted his bedtime to  _ way too late _ . 

He observed Castiel move from the window to sit on the other bed and take the remote from the stand between them. He flipped on the TV and quickly settled on some nature program on the Discovery channel. Dean smiled; he’d slept to this channel a lot during his childhood, dozing off on the couch next to Sammy who would watch the program with eager fascination.

Sleep overtook him almost instantly.

****

Dean blinked awake to the soft sound of a pleasant male voice on the television.  _ David Attenborough, _ he thought, smiling. It was completely dark in the room save for the soft glow from the television. He closed his eyes, expecting to pass back out.

No such luck.

He hadn’t dreamed during his doze, just blinked and woken back up. He must have slept for some time, though, because his neck felt stiff and the blankets were all tangled up in his legs.

The bedside clock told him it was almost 4 AM. So he’d slept for about three hours, that wasn’t too bad. Surprising considering how completely pooped he’d been when his head hit the pillow.

Dean straightened the blankets over his body and turned over from his back onto his right side, facing away from the television. The soft glow lit the wall blue, and he stared at the moving colors for a while. willing sleep to come back. But his surroundings were getting less and less fuzzy. 

_ Well _ , he thought,  _ guess it’s time to get up whether I like it or not. _

He sat up in the bed, slowly, and swiped his hands over his tired face, hissing when he rubbed to hard over the black eye. He did wonder how that was healing up. He stood from bed and noticed Cas now, looking at him; guy hadn’t moved since Dean fell asleep. He sat, in the same place on the bed, in the same position. His hands were even folded the same way.

Dean didn’t say anything, barely acknowledged him with a nod, before turning toward the vanity near the restroom. He approached the counter and flipped on the light, squinting as the brightness intruded and burned his eyes.

When he was able to adjust, he leaned forward to look at his reflection. Some of the swelling had gone down, and his eye was able to open back up almost all the way. It was still an ugly, purpley-green though. The scabs where the skin had broken were thick and dark, protruding grotesquely from the skin. In his younger years, Dean probably would have picked the wounds back open. Even now he somewhat itched to do so, but he found with age that the scabs were more bearable than the pain and mess from removing them, and he was much more prone to scarring these days. He left it be. Switching the light back off, Dean turned back to his bed and adjusted the pillows so he could sit against the headboard, pulling the blankets up to cover just his lap.

Cas finally spoke, softly, asking “Are you unable to sleep?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice was gravelly and sluggish. The fresh smell of the rainfall from earlier was still heavy in the room.  _ Odd _ . The air conditioner must have been pulling it in from outside. “It rain again?” Dean asked.

“No, it has not rained since we were caught in it.”

“Hmm. Still smell it.” Dean mumbled. 

Cas shuffled slightly at that, audibly sniffing the air. Dean snickered; it was reminiscent of a small dog. “I smell nothing,” he observed.

“Hmm. May be on me.” Dean shrugged, turning his attention back to the TV.

“Are you often unable to sleep?” Cas asked.

It hadn’t been something Dean thought much about. On work nights, he was usually so caught up in what he was doing that he fell asleep wherever he was. Nights he had no plans for the next day, he’d pass out drunk and not wake up until late afternoon, usually with a start and jumping to run to the restroom. He didn’t typically fall into bed with no will to live as he had just a few hours ago.

“Nah, usually not a problem.” It wasn’t the entire truth, and Dean knew it. He resisted the urge to go to bed because  _ bed _ often meant  _ nightmares. _ He’d been plagued by bad dreams ever since his childhood, but he didn’t necessarily like talking about it. Nights like this, where he’d fall asleep and not dream...they were a blessing.

Cas clearly sensed he was holding back, from the befuddled  _ I don’t believe you _ look on his face. Dean knew that face. It was eerily similar to the face Sam made when Dean told a totally transparent lie, like  _ no that woman with the husky voice did not turn out to be a man. _ Cas, however, had the decency not to voice his doubts. Dean was grateful. He’d already spilled one personal story on their drive home from Liberty. It was like he had an imperative to answer, couldn’t deny Cas a story when he asked for it. He was a damn good listener. They had known each other for less than a week, and Dean wanted to divulge every childhood trauma and discomfort to him. He had a weirdly calming presence, much as he hated to admit. It felt pretty nice to have someone around who could listen without trying to out-story him. 

Maybe it was because the two of them were so entirely and obviously different. 

“Cas, can I ask you something personal?” It occurred to Dean that, with all of his own rambling during their conversations, he didn’t really know much about his partner.

“Of course, you may ask me anything you wish.”

“I don’t uh...I don’t want you to take any of this the wrong way. I’m just curious - and you can tell me to shut up if I’m prying,” Dean shifted, fiddling with the frayed hem of the ugly duvet. “I just gotta ask...why the FBI? I mean you guys gotta be busy with stuff up there in the afterlife or whatever you do, right?”

“Are you asking why an angel would need to join the FBI?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

With a nod, Cas turned on the bed to more easily face Dean. “Something peculiar has been going on down here. My brothers and sisters have been sensing a great deal of supernatural energy coming from Kansas. However, for the last several years we have been unable to uncover the source. My brother Gabriel spent several months attempting to work with Gadreel to find it. It’s unlike anything we’ve ever encountered, and still we were left with very little guidance or evidence. As you can imagine, they encountered some...issues...trying to get the bureau to cooperate.”

Dean huffed and nodded at that. “Yeah. ‘lotta people not too fond of your ki--um, angels, fiddling around with what they consider ‘theirs.’”

“You are correct. Many humans behave in a very prejudiced manner.”

“And just so we’re clear, that’s not--that’s not what my deal is, kay? About not wanting a partner and all. It’s not you, don’t take it personal or nothin’.”

“I am aware, Dean. I do not believe you to be the...prejudicial type.”

Dean smiled a little. Small victory for him.

“As we were having these struggles, Gabriel thought it wise to send someone here to become a federal agent and work from within the organisation.”

“What about Gadreel? He’s been there for longer than I have, even. Why couldn’t he do it?”

Cas licked his lips and paused with a contemplative expression. Dean subconsciously mirrored the action. Was that a bad question? Some kind of angel taboo to ask about Gadreel? He did seem to be pretty outcast and didn’t talk to many people. Maybe it was some kind of fallen angel situation that humans weren’t supposed to know about.

After an  _ entire eternity _ , Cas finally said, “Gadreel...did not seem like the correct fit for the investigation.”

“Oh?”

“No. He has a somewhat abrasive personality, we found, when speaking to humans.”

Dean had experienced that personally, actually, now that he thought about it. He gave a small nod. “Got it. So they send you, mild-mannered reporter, to pick up where he can’t?” Dean could understand the decision. Castiel had won over just about everyone they had spoken to that week with just a few words. Even with his bizarre personality quirks and odd behaviors, he had a much more social personality than his angelic counterpart back home, and certainly more so than Dean. It was a dynamic that didn’t seem like the worst idea; he silently cursed Bobby for being right once again.

“Yes, I suppose you could say that. The only problem is, about six months before I graduated, we lost track of our last lead. We had an informant in Lawrence who claimed to have discovered a ring of cult activity, and he told us that he would bring us evidence that could lead us to the source of the power. However, the night of the meeting, he vanished without a trace. None of us have been able to track him down, which is very unusual. If he were dead, we would know, and we have not been able to discover how he was able to guard himself from our view.”

“Freaky,” Dean said. That chill from earlier was back, and he pulled his blanket up further. “I heard of warding against demons, but never against angels. Not a thing I thought existed.”

“Well, apparently it does, and we have yet to find a way around it.”

“So you think this guy bailed on your operation, drank the kool-aid?”

“We are unsure of what transpired.” Cas sighed, softly. It was...odd, but endearing. It enunciated the tired look on his face, and Dean wondered suddenly how old a being like him might be. He had been imagining him as this kid, this  _ Rookie _ that needed broken in. Someone naive and green. How old did angels live to be? Cas said on the plane earlier that he wasn’t likely to die any time in the near future. Did that mean he was fairly young?

“When we were examining the body at the morgue,” Cas interrupted Dean’s thoughts, continuing his story, “I felt the same presence that I felt that night we were waiting for the informant. That is part of what lead me to believe that demons were at play.”

“And you didn’t share that then because...you didn’t wanna give away the bigger picture.” Dean nodded. “It’s comin’ together now. So you think that murder...Gary Frieleng...that could be a lot bigger than just a couple of dumb guys fighting over an artifact.”

“Yes, I do believe so. There may be a large conspiracy at play here.”

“So,” Dean tossed off his blankets,  _ whoa, cold, _ and stood up. He grabbed his briefcase from the floor where he’d thrown it before changing his clothes and laid it on the small desk next to the television stand. “Then maybe you can give me more insight.” He fought the guilt starting to nibble at him. If he’d just shut up for two seconds back in Liberal, he might have begun to see the grand scheme much earlier. Cas already had some intel. Dean was so busy trying to be  _ right _ that he didn’t listen or even let the guy talk.

“I will try,” Cas offered, standing up as well. 

Dean sat down in the wooden chair, flipping on the desk lamp, and started pulling manila folders out of the briefcase, until he found the one labeled  _ Liberty: Photos. _

He laid it on the desk and flipped it open, shuffling through the polaroids until he found the one of that peculiar little box. “This thing,” he started, “what about this? Did it ring any, y’know,  _ demonic _ bells or anything?”

Castiel approached the desk and leaned over Dean’s shoulder. Way over Dean’s shoulder. When he spoke, Dean felt warm breath on his neck that made his skin prickle. 

“That particular item did not look or feel familiar, no.” His deep, soft voice was right in Dean’s ear, and the proximity was too much; Dean’s heart thudded in his chest, and he leaned away from Cas.

“Uh, hey,” he laughed, uncomfortably. “I think we uh, need to have a conversation about space.”

“Oh?” Cas turned his head slightly to regard Dean, but he didn’t move away.

Dean licked his lips and exhaled sharply. This shouldn’t be as uncomfortable as it was. “Yeah, uh...I got this thing about...personal space. Like I need about a one-foot bubble to uh...to breathe,” he laughed again. His palms felt sweaty.

“Oh. I apologize.” Cas leaned out of Dean’s air. Dean was grateful, but the uneasy feeling didn’t subside. 

He cleared his throat. “So. Let’s take a better look at these photos.”

****

For the next several hours, Dean and Cas poured over the crime scene photos, thoroughly combing through one at a time until the sun was peeking in through a little slit between the thick curtains. When the warm beams encroached on their workspace, Dean finally looked across the room at the clock.

“Whoa! It’s time to get some breakfast!” He exclaimed. His stomach growled softly as though it heard the word, and he stood from the chair. His ass was half-numb from the stiff cushion (well, it hardly qualified as a cushion), but Cas had been so close to breaking that  _ personal bubble _ that Dean hadn’t dared move while they searched for clues. When he blinked, he saw crime scene. It was burned onto his retinas. Definitely time to put food in the tummy and get death off his brain. 

“Wanna go pick up the car and then we can grab a bite?” He suggested, stretching. His back popped in several places when he twisted his torso and stretched his arms hard over his head.

“That sounds like a reasonable plan,” Cas agreed with a nod. “Should we bring our things?”

“We’ve got the room for at least tonight, I think they should be fine here.” He unceremoniously tossed the photos and papers back into his briefcase and  _ clicked _ it shut, then set it on end next to the table. “We can grab it before we go find our guy this afternoon.”

“Right.” Cas straightened his shoulders a bit, a subtle move but Dean noticed it, and he brushed past Dean toward the door.

_ Rain _ . The rain smell in the room was stuck to Cas, clung to him like a cloud of perfume. They had barely been hit with it the night before. Dean felt himself oddly drawn to him, wanting to  _ sniff _ him in the creepiest way, and when he realized what was happening in his brain he laughed a little.

Cas turned to him, inquisitively, but Dean waved him off and nodded toward the door. “Let’s go, man.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who is still sticking around! I'm a very slow updater, I'm afraid, but on the bright side I have just been onboarded as an independent editor by a publishing company, so I am stoked! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I know it's short, but I've got another one prepped around the corner and I'm gonna try to get some more churned out fairly quickly here. I love feedback and love, as always, and everyone enjoy the rest of your week!


	8. Always as they seem.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Dean bump into some quirky characters in California!

**Chapter Eight: “Always as they seem.”**

****

It was early afternoon when Cas and Dean arrived at the high school containing a peculiar supernatural library. After thinking harder on Dean’s comments on their drive, Cas realized it was actually quite odd for a high school to carry such a book. This part of California did sit on a gateway between the supernatural and their world, but surely they didn’t have formal education on the subject? It would be strange if a curriculum was too heavily centered on the local happenings, after all.

Class was in session, and the school was fairly quiet when they entered. The interior matched the outside and grounds, dark in colors and more like a cathedral in appearance than a school. Brown hues adorned every surface, and the marble floor reflected them sharply in the dimly-lit hall.

Dean had no problem navigating the halls to find the library. The school must be more standard in design than it first appeared. They wound through corridors and eventually to large, wooden double doors.

“Wow,” Dean muttered, eyeing the woodwork. “It’s like a defense against the dark arts class.” He chuckled to himself, the humor beyond Cas, though he said nothing.

“Hello?” Dean called. “Anyone home?” Dean’s greeting echoed. Nobody replied. After a moment, he said, “Well, buddy, guess we’re on our own.”

Where to even begin looking for this book would be their first challenge. The room was massive, bigger even than the libraries where he’d studied while attending university during his training to join the FBI. Dean split off from him to explore the upper level, taking the short flight of stairs two at a time. Cas began scouring the books on the wall there, just behind what looked like a conference seating area.

“If I were a creepy old witch book, where would I be?” 

“There must be some sort of  guide or directory,” Cas mused, kneeling as he began pulling books out one-by-one to briefly examine the covers.

“We’re gonna be here all day,” Dean groaned. “There’s got to be a better way.”

_ A rustling. A clang _ . Cas and Dean turned, in unison, to look as a sudden commotion erupted across the room. A stack of books and something metal - a telescope? -  had fallen from the front desk onto the floor. Cas stood swiftly and took several large strides, barely hearing Dean say “Stills, careful!” as he rounded the desk and found someone crouching there. It was a young man, clearly attempting to hide. Cas grabbed him by  his shirt collar before he could even make a move and hoisted him up into view.

“Agent Winchester, it would appear someone is here, after all.”

Dean walked down the steps toward them, crossing his arms as he approached.

“You the guy to talk to?”

The youth just laughed, and he made a valiant attempt to break free of Castiel by swinging his arm up to break the grip on his shirt. He scowled as he did so, but Cas noticed that the scowl was actually quite harsh; his brow ridge appeared to extend, and the creases in his forehead deepend and darkened. The rest of his face followed suit, whole face contorting in apparent transformation.  He was clearly not human. Anger crossed the twisted features when he failed to break free.

“Easy kiddo, we just wanna talk,” Dean’s demeanor betrayed his malice as he stepped forward with a more guarded posture. “What are you doing here anyway, huh?”

“Like I’m telling you anything,  _ Agent _ .” The voice was garbled, like his teeth were too big for his mouth. Castiel couldn’t place the type of creature. His presence read  _ vampire _ , but he was unlike any vampire Cas had seen.

“Okay okay, I see how it is.” Dean laughed softly, dropping his head, before looking back up with a fire in his eyes that took even Cas aback. He grabbed the creature by the hair, silver knife lifted to his throat.

“Who are you, what are you doing here, and where the hell is the guy who runs this show?!”

The creature bared its ugly teeth in a mocking smile. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

“I think you’re a damn idiot if you’re not.” Dean pressed the knife in tighter, just short of breaking the skin.

“You can’t kill me,” it boasted, leaning into the blade with a defiant hiss.

“Wanna bet?” The growl of Dean’s voice was barely audible. He tightened his grip in its hair, adding just enough pressure to draw blood from its throat.

It hissed but didn’t flinch. “You have no idea what you’re getting into,” it warned.

“I know you’re a monster,” Dean countered. “I know this blade hurt more than you thought it would. Silver, dumbass. I know that if I lop off your head or stab you in the heart that you’ll probably die,  and most likely I’ll do both just to make sure the job’s done. I know you’ve probably got a nest of friends that I’d be happy to make a pit stop for while I’m here if I have to. I’ll wipe out all your family and all your friends, because I hate  _ things _ like  _ you _ who smile smugly when I threaten them.”

It seemed Dean’s dark words had some effect, as the creature’s expressed defiance waned somewhat, but his countenance didn’t return to the more human face he’d had before. “You’ll never find all of us,” he spit.

Dean leaned in close, moving the knife just enough to make the creature writhe in discomfort and widen the cut ever so slightly. In a voice hardly above a whisper, he said, “Try me.”

The creature looked to Cas, skeptical and still angry, but his expression was beginning to read fear. “And you? You would help this disgusting  _ hunter _ in his bloodthirsty quest? What do you gain,  _ angel _ ?”

Cas frowned. Whatever this was, it was more intuitive than he had bargained. It filled him with a sick sort of unease. “This  _ hunter _ is a federal agent, as am I. He is my partner. I will walk with him where our investigation leads. And if you hinder us today, it may very well lead to everyone you have ever known and loved.”

The twisted smile returned, though less confident than before. “Joke’s on you, losers. I love no one.”

“This seems like a waste of time then,” Dean said, voice still low. “And if you’re not going to help us, then I guess I’ll drag ya back to the nearest field office. I’m sure they would be very interested in finding out what makes you tick.”

To Castiel’s recollection, the FBI did not experiment on any living thing, nor did they affiliate with any organisation that did. It stood then to reason that Dean was bluffing in a further attempt to frighten and intimidate.

In that case, Cas would play along. “Dean,” he said, softly, hoping to air a tone of concern. “That seems quite harsh a punishment for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Dean averted his hard gaze from the monster to cast a confused one at Cas. The expression lasted only a millisecond. “Well Cas, I don’t know what else to do. There’s got to be a precedent, and he’s not exactly protected with any rights. You know, as a monster. We would send him off to get picked apart until he dies. Which, hmm, you seem pretty confident won’t happen to you.”

The creature snarled in Dean’s face and made another attempt to break loose, more violent this time, landing a kick to Dean’s thigh and an elbow to Castiel’s ribs. He punched Dean in the face where his eye was still healing.

The strike caught Dean off guard, knocking him backward, but Cas was expecting another escape attempt and he avoided the second blow without losing his grip, maneuvering behind the creature to catch him in a tight headlock.

Dean recovered quickly, straightening out. One of the scabs over his eye had broken and blood trickled out and down his face. He snarled. “I think this is a waste of time, Agent. Let’s haul him off to dissection land.”

“Agent Winchester, please be reasonable.” The cadence of Castiel’s voice, he knew, wasn’t exactly fitting a  _ plea _ , but it was the closest he could hit.

“For this thing?” Dean looked a bit more angry than he was letting on, but he surprisingly kept his tone even. “Nah, who cares what happens to him.”

It thrashed again, hissing out commands to release him or  _ feel his wrath _ , a sentiment that seemed slightly overstated but betrayed his fear.

“Release you?!” Dean mocked. “What, so you can go find your friends and tell them to come for me and my partner here? Nah, I don’t think so.” He reached behind him into his jacket and produced a set of warded handcuffs. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t you dare, insolent fool!”

Dean chuckled. “Insolent fool. Hear that?”

“I believe this to be a classic case of the  _ pot _ calling the  _ kettle _ black,” Cas said, hoping he was utilizing the expression correctly.

Dean looked at him, sparkling bemusement in his eyes, and quirked a genuine smile. “I agree.”

“It’s not even me you want!” The creature argued as Dean made a move to cuff him. Their act was producing results after all. This was fortunate for them, as they were just about out of bluffs.

“Yeah, I’m calling bull on that one.” Dean began clicking the cuffs on as the creature hissed and squirmed. He clearly wasn’t expecting Cas to be strong enough to subdue him without a fight.

“Don’t believe me,  _ hunter _ ? I was just snooping for a charm while the Watcher was gone. He’s the one who can help you! I know nothing. If you let me be, I will help you find him.”

“Yeah, good one. Desperate last grab at escape, huh?”

“His name is Giles! He owns a store on Maple Court,  _ the Box _ or something in that neighborhood of a boring name. Unhand me and I’ll show you where.”

Cas looked to Dean, who looked contemplative. He could be lying to get away, in fact it was the most likely scenario. However, they were out of tricks and had not  much else left to lose.

“Alright,” Dean finally agreed, unlocking the cuffs. “Prove it.”

He straightened, calm, but only for a moment before turning to lunge at Dean. Dean, who was fortunately prepared for the assault and already had his arm up in defense. His right hand he hooked under and drove the silver shank into its chest. The force knocked the creature back, but he simply yanked the weapon out and tossed it aside. It clattered as it hit the floor, and Cas unholstered his gun and fired rapidly at the assailant. 

The bullets had no effect besides a slight moving force, and he simply shook it off and practically  _ flew _ through the air toward Dean. Dean shouted and barely managed to roll out of the way of the attack,  but their captor was back on his feet and charging him quickly. Cas glanced around the room for something else that could be used as a weapon. All that was there were books and furniture. He beelined for the table and grabbed a chair. The creature had knocked Dean to the floor and was making a move to bite him on the neck. Cas wielded the chair overhead and broke it upon the monster’s back.

It  _ screeched _ in response, turning to knock Cas away with one arm. Cas stumbled from his feet onto the floor, and Dean was again in imminent danger. Cas rolled off his back over toward the broken chair, yanking a leg off the seat. He lunged forward and buried the makeshift stake into the creature’s back. It screeched again, arching away from Dean, and then startling them both by going  _ poof _ into a cloud of dust. The chair leg fell to the floor, loudly. There lay a pile of ashes, presumably once the creature.

Dean was sitting up, hand on his neck where it had been trying to bite him. His upper lip was  busted, and it was hard to tell if the drop of blood that fell from his jaw was from the new injury or the reopened one. Dean didn’t seem to notice either, staring instead with wide eyes at the mess on the floor.

“What the actual  _ hell _ was that thing?” He finally managed.

“I am uncertain. I believe it to be some sort of vampire.”

“ _ Vampire? _ That thing felt like a brick wall when it ran into me. I thought it was gonna crush me. And I stabbed it in the heart! Why didn’t it work for me?!” His voice cracked within the question, more flustered than he appeared.

Cas stood and walked toward where Dean was propping himself up on the floor. “It had several vampiric characteristics, and he was attempting to puncture your jugular for a reason. It may be a small nest of deviated genes, particularly strong. He had a human face when I first found him. As for why he died when I stabbed him and not you, I cannot say.” He extended a hand to Dean, who looked up at him for several long seconds before accepting the assistance. He brushed himself off, looking a bit indignant as he did. 

“Dean, you’re bleeding,” Cas pulled a handkerchief from his inner pocket, pausing to gauge his partner, before reaching forward to dab the droplets from his chin and cheek. A little had spotted his jacket shoulder and would probably not come out of the wool blend material.

Dean winced but didn’t withdraw. “Thanks.” 

“I suppose now we will seek out  _ The Box _ on Maple Court. Hopefully there are not too many streets by that name in this city.”

“You think there’s any merit to that story?”

“I believe it is worth checking into, don’t you?”

“Yeah, guess so.” Dean nodded. Cas pressed the handkerchief to the spot on Dean’s eyebrow that was still bleeding slightly. Dean reached up and pressed his fingers to Castiel’s hand there. It took a few moments for Cas to realize that he was trying to take the square and hold it himself, not simply making contact with him. He withdrew his hand and allowed Dean to apply pressure himself. He didn’t have an explanation for the flush he felt fall over his face, or even a basis of comparison. He was...flustered? For what reason, he couldn’t pinpoint. 

Dean cleared his throat, looking past Cas now at the  _ exit _ sign on the upper level of the library. His cheeks were dusted pink. Good. Castiel was confused by his relief at Dean’s blush, but relieved all the same. In the wake of that, they headed out. 

****

The GPS showed that Maple Court was not far from the high school, so the drive to the road was short, past a cemetery, a church, and a small subdivision. The winter chill had lifted and, though the air was cool, the bright sun beamed heat into the car as they drove with the windows down. The town was surprisingly cheery for a gateway town, which would usually be crawling with demons and monsters. They hadn’t yet seen it at night, however, so the peril was yet to be determined. Though Kansas City was wrought with activity, it wasn’t at that time sitting on an active portal like this place. Demonic energy surged around them, up through the cracks in the pavement and the telephone wires. The air was thick with magic, witchcraft, and other presences that Cas hardly remembered from centuries long gone. 

It was, for lack of a better term,  _ spooky.  _

Dean must have felt it too. He drove, fists clenched on the steering wheel, jaw tight and shoulders forward. They were just passing another cemetery, at the corner of Weatherly and Thousand Oaks Drive, when Cas spotted a sign down the road that read  _ The Magic Box _ . Surely, that must have been what their vamp was talking about.

“Dean, do you see it?”

“Yep. Maple Court’s that street there, too. Gotta be it.” They turned into the small parking lot. The air was charged heavily with almost every kind of magic Cas had ever felt. It dragged down on him like a hot, heavy quilt. There was strong warding inside of that building. Nothing necessarily meant to keep out angels, but certainly to deter anything that wasn’t  _ human _ . Less of a fence, and more of a big, bright  _ Danger _ sign. 

Dean must have noticed his unease. “Hey man, you okay? You can wait in the car. You look...woozy?”

Cas swallowed, dry, and shook his head. “No, I’m alright.” He supposed he did feel... _ woozy _ , but he would be fine. He just needed to push through that outer barrier and enter the store. He was certain the buzz would stop once over the threshold. There was a pleasant  _ ting ting! _ of a bell when Dean pushed the front door open.

He was correct about the air shifting, though when he came inside he saw something he definitely was not expecting.

A demon.

No, not a demon. A human? With a...demon aura. She stood behind the counter near the cash register, flipping through a book.

Even weirder still, she looked up at them and she smiled.

She smiled at Cas. With clear recognition she did so.

Not with malice; it was a genuine, welcoming, friendly smile.

“Hi fellas!” The greeting was chipper and pleasant. “Planning on spending any money today?”

Dean smiled back, clearly taken with the attractive woman behind the counter. “Depends.”  He couldn’t see the veil. It was humorous, actually, as he swaggered up to the counter and leaned on it.

“You look like you’ve been through the wringer!” She commented, examining Dean’s black eye and fat lip. “Looking for some healing magic? A salve, perhaps?”

“Actually, lookin’ for something a little more difficult to come by.” He produced his badge and laid it on the counter.  “Had a run in with someone, said I could find a  _ Giles _ here?”

Her cheer diminished slightly, shoulders sagging. “What do you need with Rupert? He’s definitely not the troublemaking type, unless he has some dark secret alternate self that he’s managed to keep hidden all this time.” She gasped. “Evil Giles! Has he  _ broken bad _ , as they say?”

Dean cleared his throat, glancing uneasily at Cas in his periphery. “Not that we know of, no. He’s the librarian at Sunnydale High School, correct?”

“Oh, that boring, awful old place?”

Dean laughed. “I’m guessing you went there?”

“Yeah but only for like a minute. School isn’t really my  _ thing _ turns out, too many words and numbers and all that homework? I mean, who can keep track of it all?”

“I hear ya. So, the librarian…?”

“Yes. I know him.” She leaned on the counter, mirroring Dean’s posture with her chin pointed up. “And what about him?”

“Like I said, he isn’t in trouble,” Dean began making inquiries about the book. When Cas was satisfied that Dean could handle the apparently-not-demon woman, he wandered away to examine the shelves of the store. There were genuine articles and relics scattered in amongst herbs, sage bundles, and many many totems and minerals. He had yet to see such a high concentration of real magicks in one small store. Especially one like this on a main strip. There must be a coven nearby for there to be this high a demand and quality. 

The store was small but supple, rows of shelves and counters covered, every inch of them, with merchandise. 

Cas was alerted to a male presence by the sound of another voice, and he tuned back into the conversation at the counter, turning his head. It was two of them actually, one fairly young, and one spectacled and about a decade older than Dean. They appeared to be walking out together to join the woman at the desk, mid-conversation.

She cleared her throat when she spotted them and nodded, with exaggeration, toward Dean.

Dean chanced a look back at Castiel, who returned to his side.

“Agent Winchester,” Dean introduced himself to the new parties. “My partner, Agent Stills,”

Cas nodded, brandishing his own badge.

“Agents, pleasure. Rupert Giles,” the older man extended a hand to shake each of theirs.

The younger man did the same. “Xander Harris.”

“Agent Winchester is asking about that book,” the woman said, turning slightly.

“Ah, yes Anya, which book?” Giles spoke with what sounded like an English accent. His stature and attire fit the personality Cas would have expected upon seeing the aesthetic of the library and the shop they were in.

“The one that disappeared with the necklace.” The woman,  _ Anya _ , explained.

“Whoa,” Xander Harris leaned on the counter now. “Quite a coincidence you’d come looking for that  _ now _ ,” he said, eyes narrowed.

“Oh?  Why now?” Dean shifted, and a look of intense contemplation crossed his features. Surely, whatever they were investigating all the way in Kansas City didn’t have tendrils this far west?

“Um, what Xander means to say,” Giles interjected, “is that we don’t exactly have access to the book right this moment.”

“So you  _ don’t _ have it? ‘Cause we’ve got it on pretty good authority that you were the last person in possession of it.”

“Yes, well, things have since gotten a bit...hmm, complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“Well, you see, I’m afraid the book’s been taken.”

Dean turned to look at Cas again, who couldn’t quite read the expression but it looked like it contained a hint of disbelief.

“Taken? Is that all? We’re FBI, in case you didn’t catch that. We could help, if you’ll let us borrow it.”

“Well I don’t mind if you have it, to be quite honest, we’ve had enough and I’d be happy to see it in responsible hands at this point.” Giles stood back from the counter and reached underneath to produce a pen and paper. “Let me give you some backstory here. You see, this book came into my possession about six years ago. It was recovered from a cult that, to the best we can tell, had been using it to brainwash people for a while. We weren’t able to decipher the writings, however, and so I put it away for safekeeping. The book had some symbols on the spine, the likes of which I have never seen before or since. I thought it must be in direct relation to the scoundrels that were utilizing it. That is until just about three weeks ago. A charm necklace turned up in the shop. I’m not sure where it came from, it was just sitting on the floor in a plain jewelry box. I wouldn’t have thought much of it, except it matched the markings on the book. The markings that I’d only ever  _ seen _ on the book. So I put them together and set them aside.” He shifted a little, examining the counter and muttering in frustration a bit to himself, something that sounded like  _ never should have put them together _ .

Anya, who had been watching Giles and letting him talk, spoke up when he seemed a bit too flustered to go on. “The book disappeared the next day, along with the necklace and our Buffy!”

Dean cocked an eyebrow. “Your what?”

“Who.” Xander threw sideways glance at Anya when he spoke. “Our friend. She went missing too. The next day we found a note saying she had run off with…” he sighed. “There’s a... _ guy _ ...I guess she’s sort of been seeing. Completely unbeknownst to us. That part I can’t blame her for. You know I’m sure gonna give her an earful when she gets back!”

Anya nodded. “Spike, of all people. I never would have guessed.”

“So your friend,” Dean looked back and forth between the two of them, “she took the book?”

Giles rejoined the conversation. “As far as we can tell, yes.”

“And she went to be with this,  _ Spike _ ?”

“It isn’t like her, please understand,” Giles spoke in a soft tone. “I’m not sure what’s gotten into her. The whole...boy thing, well, I suppose it was only a matter of time. But this? Running off? Radio silence? Something isn’t right.”

“Any clue where she may have headed?”

“Here is the note she left,” Giles produced a slightly crumpled paper from his pocket and laid it on the counter.

****

_ Paradise Springs with Spike _

_ Don’t bother coming for me, nothing can stop true love _

_ He will take care of me, I know it. Love you guys _

_ -Buffy Summers _

****

Dean studied the note, crossing his arms as he sometimes did when faced with a complex puzzle. 

“Paradise Springs?”

Giles nodded. “I’m not sure exactly what or where that is, I’m afraid. Closest I could find is a private property a few hours south of here. But when we went to find it…” he looked contemplatively up at his companions. “Well, she found some way to...hide it.”

“We think she enchanted the property.” Anya clarified.

Xander and Giles both looked at her when she said it, expressions a bit aghast.

She shrugged with wide eyes. “What?” She gestured toward Cas, where all glances followed. He stiffened, feeling a bit singled out without warning. “He knows about all this stuff, he’s an angel.”

Dean cleared his throat. “I don’t, uh--”

“No don’t worry, I’m not judging!” Anya put her hands up. “Used to be a demon.”

“A  _ what? _ ” Dean leaned toward her, his entire demeanor taking on a sudden and hostile vibe.

Cas put a hand on his partner’s shoulder, and Xander’s posture changed swiftly as he stepped closer to the woman.

“Whoa, okay now!” The young man put an arm over Anya’s shoulders. “Used to! Past tense! And besides, she’s our friend - my fianceé, for crying out loud!” He put a defensive hand up toward Dean.

“ _ Dean _ ,” Cas squeezed Dean’s shoulder a little. “Let’s focus, please.”

Dean whipped a glare at Cas, who stood steady, clenching his jaw. This situation was  _ not _ going to escalate for no good reason. Anya had done nothing to indicate that she had any ill intent toward anyone, and to the best he could tell she was now fully human. How or why were completely unclear, but there appeared to be no deception at play.

“Please, agent,” the librarian was visibly flustered. “We aren’t looking for trouble. I apologize, I didn’t realize you were a hunter or we would have said something sooner. It isn’t often you wear badges.” His right hand was under the counter, presumably ready to draw a weapon. This could get very ugly very quickly.

“Dean. The book. We are looking for the book, remember.”

Dean’s eyes remained locked on the woman, who looked annoyed but not out of sorts like the other two. She had no doubt experienced this type of reaction before. Cas felt for her.

Dean finally unpuffed, stepping back and letting  his shoulders relax, though he held his icy stare. “Right. Book.”

“Like I said, I’d be more than happy to help you. I don’t know how you will find them, but you’ll have to snap Buffy out of whatever trance she is in. If you can do that, you can have the book and the charm and whatever you need to get the job done.”

Dean shook Cas’ hand from him, giving him what was probably meant to be a reassuring nod but looked more like an annoyed twitch. “Sorry.” He glanced at Anya when he said the word. “I’m sure you’re great. Yes,” he reigned himself in with a deep breath. “We’d be grateful for your help.”

“Here is the address for the place we believe them to be hiding out,” Giles was writing on the notepad he’d taken earlier. “I don’t know how you’re going to get past the enchantment, but if you do I am guessing you’ll find them there.”

“I may be able to see past it,” Cas said. “If you have a clarifying crystal, however, that may be of assistance.”

“I do!” Anya volunteered, enthusiastically, and walked to a nearby shelf to pull a basket off the top shelf. “Will one of these work?”

The basket was full of clear, rough-cut quartz rocks in varying sizes. 

Cas picked a small one out of the bunch and held it up to the light. It was almost flawless. “Yes, this should do. Thank you.”

Anya studied it with him. “Are you sure? Seems a bit small. Gosh, I wish Willow was here.”

“I believe it will be sufficient,” Castiel assured with a slight nod. “I can see past most mysticism but this will help peel back the top layer.”

Anya nodded. “Got it! Then yes, you can have it, if that’s alright with Giles.”

“Yes, that’s fine with me,” Giles nodded. “My first concern is with Buffy’s wellbeing. I’ve no doubt she can handle herself, but if she’s under a spell...I fear for her. There are plenty of creatures and people alike who have reason to want her out of the picture. Or dead.”

“What reasons might there be?” Cas asked.

“Buffy...she’s a slayer.”

Dean laughed. “A slayer? C’mon, that’s an urban legend. There are no slayers.” He looked at Cas. presumably for affirmation. When Cas didn’t answer, his eyes widened. “Right? There’s no slayers, right?”

“Slayers are very much real,” Giles said. “Though I understand the misconception, it is beneficial for us all that they fly under the radar, to be quite honest.”

“Jesus, can this day get weirder?”

“I hate to make your day, but yes,” Xander said. “Just a heads up, because just in case you need to know, uh, Spike’s also a vampire.”

“A what?!” Dean worked his jaw and laughed. “You guys are pulling my leg, right? Some kind of   _ who can say the weirdest shit _ contest? Ha ha, let’s make fun of the FBI agent. Do you even have the book?”

“Please, we aren’t having a laugh, I promise,” Giles said. “This is very serious. The vampire problem in Sunnydale isn’t yet getting out of control in Buffy’s absence, but beyond that I fear there is something larger at play. Something darker. A very hostile presence has settled in here and it puts us all very ill at ease.’

Dean nodded, lips in a tight line. He was clearly aggravated, perhaps more so than he might normally be under the circumstances. Perhaps a result of this  _ darkness _ the librarian spoke of. 

“Alright,” he conceded. “We’ll see what we can do.”

****

\-----

****

The sun was already setting when Sam pulled into the crowded parking lot at the Kansas City FBI Field Office. It wasn’t even 5PM yet. He quietly cursed short midwest winter days. It was blustery and cold. Not  _ dig out the parka and snow gloves _ cold, but that horrible border between a jacket not being enough and a coat being too much. Wind whipped his hair about and tried to tear his jacket from him. He clutched a stack of papers close to his chest as he approached the guest entrance.

He hadn’t been able to get ahold of Dean all day, and there were some notes from Rowena that he was certain his brother would want upon his return home. The next few days were pretty booked for Sam in court, however, and he didn’t want his brother’s investigation to be at all impeded because of his unavailability. Not that Dean needed his help to solve his cases, of course, he was a great detective. But if Sam had the means, he was going to lend a helping hand wherever he could.

He wove through brightly-lit, drab halls. The fluorescent fixtures cast wavy, ugly yellow shadows upon the inhabitants of the building. It never ceased to amaze Sam, whenever he visited, how clinical, cold, and hostile a  _ building _ could feel. No wonder Dean had a bad attitude and a drinking problem. Even spending days in and out of courthouses, this place felt sterile. Impersonal. It was with great relief that he finally arrived at Dean’s office. He used the key his brother had given him to unlock the door; the office was dark and fairly tidy, save for a couple of empty coffee cups sitting on the desk that housekeeping either missed or didn’t bother with. He knew Dean could be weird about people in his space. He wondered if housekeeping ever even entered his brother’s office.  He wouldn’t be surprised if he’d given instructions along the lines of “leave my crap alone!”

He set the stack on Dean’s desk and made to leave, ensuring the door was locked behind him. When he turned into the hall, he bumped into something - someone? - that shouted with indignance as a stack of notebooks tumbled to the floor.

It was Chuck Shurley. 

“Chuck, man I’m so sorry,” Sam knelt to help pick up the scattered books.

“Sam Winchester! Pardon  _ me _ ,” he said, graciously accepting Sam’s assistance. “I didn’t really expect that door to open. It doesn’t open often, you know.”

Sam chuckled. “I can imagine.”

“So what are you doing here, anyway?” He gathered the last of his things into his arms and stood. “I thought Dean was on a case?”

“Uh, he is!” Sam nodded. “I had some stuff for him, just dropping it off.” He gestured toward the notebooks Chuck held. “May I ask what you’re working on?”

Chuck laughed. “It’s silly, really. Not work related...exactly.”

Sam cocked his head with a small smile. “I’m listening.”

“Well, I’m writing a book. It’s sort of...about Becky.” There was a hint of a blush on his cheeks. “It’s not what it sounds like! It’s an action thriller. I’m basing the main character, the hero character, on her. She doesn’t know yet, it’s going to be a surprise for her birthday.”

“I didn’t know you were a writer!”

Chuck nodded, gaze cast to the floor with the hint of a smirk. “Yeah, it’s sort of my  _ thing _ . The thing I wanted to do that wasn’t, you know, my real job.”

“Huh. Well that sounds great! I’m sure she’ll love it, Chuck.”

“I hope so! She’s...well, you know. Stuck in the past a little. I think it’s her self-confidence. I hope that, if she can see herself as the hero of a story...anyway, like I said, silly.”

Sam shook his head. “No! It’s not silly at all. I think that’s a really great thing you’re doing, Chuck. And you should be proud of it. Writing can be tough, especially when you’re writing an impression of a real person. Lots of people have that, writing, as a real job you know.”

Chuck scoffed. “Yeah, tell that to my parents! They even went so far as to ban me from doing it my last year of high school because they were convinced it would distract me from my  _ lucrative career _ . Joke’s on them, IT isn’t much better.”

Sam clapped Chuck on the shoulder with a sympathetic smile. “I hear ya, buddy. But listen, you don’t have to just do what they tell you now. You write this book, I’m sure it will be great. I’d love to read it when it’s done, if that’s alright.”

Chuck’s eyes positively sparkled when he looked up at Sam. “Really?”

“Yeah! You’ve got a great way with words, Chuck! In fact, I look forward to it.”

“That sounds great Sam, thanks!” He turned to leave, with a pep in his step, but paused and gave Sam another glance. “Hey, I’m sorry...about last week.”

“Hmm?”

“When...with Becky. I know you didn’t do anything to her. I just...wanted her to feel like someone was on her side. We spend a lot of time together. I know she can feel kinda isolated. She thinks the whole world is against her.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “Really? She sure doesn’t act it.”

“False confidence. She doesn’t want anyone to see how insecure she is. Oh, but please don’t say anything to her, I don’t want her to think I’m - I’m only--”

Sam laughed. “Don’t worry about it, man.” Like he was going to voluntarily start  _ any _ conversation with Becky Rosen.

Chuck’s shoulders sagged a little and the smile returned. “Thanks. Have a good night, Sam.”

“You do the same Chuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey-o! I know it's been more than a month since my last update, sorry y'all! I have been working a bit as a nanny (finally getting to pay some bills, hah!) and streaming on twitch (by the way you guys can check that out, it's /yvesadele on twitch and I'm almost daily). I'm going out of town this weekend so I figured I'd polish up chapter 8 and hand it over before I go! Hope you enjoyed, as always feedback is not only appreciated but LOVED. Have a great and safe Labor Day, everyone!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What mysteries await in the creepy, high desert?

**Chapter Nine: “Lean too much on the approval of people, and it becomes a bed of thorns.”**

****

Dean knew he shouldn’t pry. He himself didn’t appreciate incessant, intrusive questions. The truth was, though, he was beginning to feel comfortable talking to Cas. Sure, the guy was awkward and he did odd things and said even weirder things, but he was kind. So much kinder to Dean than he deserved, considering the way he’d been cold-shouldering him. Now that they were on the road together, he was finding some common ground with this angel detective. Perhaps he didn’t even deserve to say that much.

They’d hopped into the rental and were headed out to investigate the address that the Librarian had given them. Like usual, once his bristles came down Dean realized how much of a prick he was  being. To strangers. People he’d literally known for five minutes. He’d come to a snap judgement of that Anya chick the moment he discovered she used to be anything other than human.  _ Used to _ . Past tense. He wanted to shank a living, breathing, human woman because she used to be a monster. What part of his stupid, angry,  _ monkey brain _ did those feelings even live in? Humans were all protected by the same rights; innocent until proven guilty. Full stop. There were no stipulations in those rights about past lives or what they may have evolved from.

As they drove, Dean felt a sick pit forming in his stomach. He knew he was an asshole. He’d never doubted it or argued against it. It just felt especially real in the moment, and he hated it.

“The air here is very dense with Magic,” Cas said, breaking the long silence. “We must be getting close.”

“Just curious,” Dean took the opportunity to ask some of the questions that had been tickling his brain. “How does that whole spidey-sense thing work, anyway? Like, how do you know the difference between sensing  _ demons _ and sensing  _ magic _ , or whatever?”

He glanced over at Cas, who returned the look with  a somewhat furrowed brow.

“I...don’t believe I have ever considered it,” he said, slowly. “I  just...know.”

“Like...a word pops up in your brain? Like a thought?”

Cas shook his head and looked back out through the windshield. “No, not exactly. More like a  finely-tuned olfactory sense.”

“You smell it?!”

“...no. But that’s...a close description. For instance,  how do you know when a ghost is nearby?”

“Easy; cold draft.”

“It’s like a  _ cold draft _ , but in all my senses, with magic. I don’t necessarily feel temperature the same way you do, though I can feel it, it doesn’t elicit the same physical response since your responses are a biological survival technique and my physique, even in this body, is slightly more complex.”

“Yeah yeah, so you’re more  _ evolved _ than me, I get it.” 

“Not evolved. Actually, I am technically  _ less _ evolved. We are only different, Dean. Different does not connote better or worse.”

There was that  _ asshole _ feeling again. “Ok...so, what. You get a cold chill in your soul and it activates your third eye or whatever?”

“In a way. The magic here could be described as your  _ cold chill _ . Cold doesn’t always mean a ghost, right? Much the same for me this  _ feeling _ doesn’t always mean magic, but I’ve come to associate it and, as such, intuitively know when it is out of place and probably means that.”

Dean nodded, slowly. He supposed he was following; like how the smell of burning wood and coal almost always meant a barbeque grill was being fired up somewhere.

“Okay, so what about...for instance, you had a feeling about demons. Back at the morgue. What was that like?”

Cas was quiet in contemplation for a moment. “That one is a little harder to describe. It’s much more primal, as demons and angels have been around since the beginning of mankind.”

“So like seeing an old friend at the train station?”

“That sounds accurate, yes.”

“Hmm.” Dean nodded, watching mirages fade away on the road as they neared them. 

“Kind of like your  _ gut feeling _ .”

That, Dean could understand. He wondered what it would be like to have a sixth sense strong enough to single out supernatural forces with a sniff. It would certainly make about 80% of his job easier.

“So what other abilities do you have? If that’s OK to ask, I mean.”

“Of course, I’m happy to discuss our differences. Information is an advocate of integration.”

“A what?”

“Well, I believe any human-angel bigotry that still exists is a product of ignorance and associated fear.”

“Oh! Uh, of course.”

“But, to answer your question, I am quite limited in this form. Flight is extremely difficult and very hard on the human body, not to mention that I need adequate linear space to spread my wings before I can open a rift to travel. I would need to not be buckled into this car, for instance.”

“Whoa, really? But I thought your wings were incorporeal or something.”

“Correct, however materials on this plane of existence are solid through several. Your perception is unfortunately limited to just one, but there is a broad spectrum that you and your world cross into. Otherwise, navigation on that plane in this world would be nigh impossible.”

“...oh. Huh. Guess I never thought of it that way.”

“I don’t suppose you have ever had reason to.” Cas agreed. “Most of my powers are dulled as well. My vision and hearing are severely limited - in fact, it took me a month to realize that the people around me were not mumbling and that it was simply an adjustment I needed to make. I heal much more slowly, though still significantly faster than any human. At full force, I would have been able to eradicate that black eye for you. As it is, it would be very difficult and draining for me to even begin to close a wound on someone else.”

“So what, you have to switch into full-angel mode to do that stuff, right? Which would be dangerous for anyone looking, I’m sure.”

“Still not that simple. Angels, when transferring between true form and their human vessel, must be guided and assisted by an archangel.”

Dean glanced at Cas in the corner of his eye. “Wait, so you mean you’re pretty much stuck like this until someone with authority says it’s OK to come home?”

“In a sense, however Gabriel and Raphael have never limited homecoming as a form of control or punishment for anyone. If I ask, they would bring me back. It’s more a matter of getting their attention, as things are very busy in Heaven and here as well.”

“So...is that what the deal is with Gadreel, then? He’s stuck here because someone doesn’t have time to take him home?”

“That’s not,” a soft sigh, “no.”

Dean realized he may be stepping out of line. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it...offensively. I’m just curious, you don’t have to tell me…”

“It’s  not that.” Cas shifted slightly. “Gadreel chose to stay here. He apparently prefers the company of humans over angels.”

“What? Why? He sure doesn’t act like it. And the folks down at the bureau aren’t exactly warm and fuzzy with  him.”

“That does not necessarily matter. Gadreel...made an error. A very long time ago.” Cas’ voice was low and calculating, careful in his wording.  “Though he has been _ forgiven _ , some of the angels do not behave as though his mistake is in the past. He is still ridiculed and chastised in Heaven. As such, even a passive disdain or distaste is probably welcoming at this point.”

Dean gave a stiff nod. He knew what it was to prefer being untolerated over being actively hated. It was a lesson he learned the tough way as a kid.

“While he is an excellent detective, he is somewhat unwilling to help Gabriel sort anything out. What Gabriel says to him is in good humor, I’m certain, but Gadreel still does not appreciate the remarks.”

“Thus, you.”

“Yes. Thus, me.” He started doing that weird, small-dog sniff again, and Dean kept a close eye on their surroundings. It just looked like miles and miles of desert, as they cruised down a seemingly-endless two-lane highway. They had to be nearing the edge of the continent; they had been driving literally forever.

“We’re close,” Cas said. He was squinting, looking around and twisting to look behind the car. “Pull over,” he instructed.

Dean complied, slowing to a stop in the narrow shoulder. He watched, with keen interest, as Cas opened the car door and stared across the road into the empty stretch of sand and bushes. It was a good thirty seconds he stared, before trekking across the blacktop and onto the dirt. Dean exited the vehicle himself at that point, speedwalking across the road to catch up with Cas, who was now walking swiftly into the desert.

“Uh, Cas? Buddy? Where ya goin’?”

Cas made a dismissive gesture with one hand as he continued forward. Dean followed, uncertain of what was happening but hesitant to lose his partner out here. Their phones hadn’t been in service for over an hour now, and there were practically no landmarks to find each other by even if they could reach out. Who knew there was wilderness out in such an otherwise-highly-populated state?

Cas finally stopped walking, and he turned to face Dean. He was about 30 yards away, and with the sun shining down brightly overhead Dean couldn’t make out his expression.

“What are you doing?” Dean shouted the question, continuing in Castiel’s direction. 

“I believe I’ve found what we’re looking for.”

As Dean continued forward, he started to feel...something. Something...terribly...wrong? Heavy? He couldn’t place it. His arms and legs started to feel like he was walking against the wind, or through water. Oh yeah, there was definitely some kind of heavy hex going on around these parts.

“I believe you have,” Dean called, struggling a little to continue moving. Every fiber of his being itched to turn tail. That was probably what this spell was meant to do.

He slowed to a cautious walk, pushing himself as hard as he could toward Cas, zeroing in on the figure in the trenchcoat just out of reach. If he could just...push...a  _ little _ ...further…

He stopped about 15 feet shy. He felt as though the ground was made of syrup, slowly sucking him in. His insides itched. “Uh...Cas?”

“I know, Dean.” Castiel sighed, stepping forward. “The barrier is thickest right there, you just have to break through.”

Dean’s heart raced. His logical mind was laughing at him; what was he so afraid of? There was nothing around them for miles,  _ obviously _ . His eyes swept the empty desert floor. Any threat would be visible way before it became a problem. So  _ what was he so afraid of? _ His face burned and he nudged one foot forward.

With a small grunt, Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m not sure about this one, Cas.”

Calmly composed, Cas walked back toward him. How was he so calm? Couldn’t he feel whatever was looming over them, like a swollen raincloud?

“It’s alright,” he said, calmly. “It’s just a spell.”

“I know that!” Dean barked, blush intensifying.  _ Damnit _ . Years of prep and training for this type of thing exactly, and he was hung up on one little perception hex. 

Cas approached him and extended one arm. “Give me your hand.” And there he stood, expectantly.

Dean stared, unable to emote. His hands were in clenched fists by his sides as he willed his feet to move.  _ Come on, Winchester. You’ve had worse. Just move your fucking feet _ . 

A ‘we don’t have time for this’ expression briefly dusted Castiel’s features, and he took Dean by the arm and firmly pulled, walking him forward. Dean’s entire body lit up with pins and needles, as though waking from a scary dream, and he felt woozy. With a slight wobble, he lurched forward and latched on to his partner, feet moving now but not with much direction or control. 

“It’s alright,” Cas assured, softly, walking forward with swiftness. “We’re just about on the other side.”

Dean swallowed dryly and just nodded, letting Cas practically carry him as the strength returned to his legs. Cas didn’t waiver for one moment, not at all deterred by Dean’s weight or lack of balance. He may not be fully  _ angelic _ or whatever, but damn if he wasn’t the strongest dude Dean had ever met.

Once the threat of falling face-first on the ground had passed, Dean ventured standing on his own two feet again. He faltered, but Cas was quick to grab him, throwing an arm around his waist and steadying him by a shoulder. “It may take some time to get used to the full effects of the spell,” he said. “We are past the barrier but I’m afraid there is very strong magic being used here, and it encompasses a large area. However, I believe I have located the hiding place of the slayer and the vampire.”

Despite his feeble state, Dean almost preferred swaying and, hell, even  _ crawling _ toward their destination to letting another man hold him up by his waist.  _ Almost _ . The contact wasn’t terrible, though, in fact Dean decided to allow himself the comfort, just this once, of letting his partner help him. Castiel was an angel, for crying out loud. It wasn’t like an arm around the waist could possibly carry the connotations that it might for, say,  _ Dean _ . It was stupid to be hung up on in their situation, anyway. They were about to have a much bigger problem than Dean being embarrassed by physical contact. It wasn’t like they were holding hands or anything, just one agent helping his fellow agent cross the desert, looking inebriated and feeling a bit tranquilized. Besides, he wasn’t above admitting to himself that there was some aggressive element of anxiety tugging at him, causing him to seek physical grounding. Just that the  _ grounding _ happened to be Cas, who happened to be male as well. At least, in form.

Sure enough, on the horizon, Dean could see what looked like a very tiny house. In fact, if he had been able to focus on anything besides his crippling, baseless fear, he may have seen that they were on a dirt road leading up a hill. There was even a chain link fence visible off in the distance, toward the mountains. How much was hidden from perception out here?

They neared the structure, and Dean did start to feel...well,  _ normal _ would perhaps be a stretch, but he could feel his fingers, and his legs could probably hold him. He paused in his fumbling steps, causing Cas to halt as well.

“Think I can walk,” he said, simply, though he placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder to steady himself. He applied some pressure, signaling Cas to let up on his grip at Dean’s waist. Castiel did break contact, but he hovered there, like a parent watching their toddler walk on an uneven surface, expecting him to crumple at any second.

Dean managed a couple of steps, then straightened out. “Yeah, I think I’m good.” His face was on fire. The weirdest part was how shaky and fragile he felt, like he needed someone to wrap their arms around him to hold him together. The image that formed in his mind of Cas doing that wasn’t exactly unappealing, either.  _ Man, this place has me hazy. _

The little house was a decent looking place, new, no more than maybe 5 years. It had a small driveway, no garage, and it was tan with dark red brick siding. There were no cars in sight, but Dean shambled up to the front door anyway and leaned on the door frame. There was a small window to the right of the door; no movement visible inside. 

He stood for a minute, leaning and feeling like he needed to catch his breath. He may as well have run a marathon.

“Should we knock?” Cas inquired. Dean waved him off with a small nod.

“Yeah, just, uh, gimme a sec.” 

“Dean, are you alright?”

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” the words bit more than he meant. “Just give me a damn second.”

“Alright.” How was he so calm? Dean didn’t feel the heavy, intrusive  _ terror _ that was gripping him at the edge of whatever magic barrier they were under, but he sure as shit felt  _ wrong _ and it was corroding his cool. 

Dean cleared his throat and leaned aside, motioning toward the door. “You want to…?”

It took Cas a moment, but he nodded shortly and stepped forward, placing three firm knocks on the door. “Ms. Summers? Agents Stills and Winchester, FBI.” He paused, glancing over at Dean. “We are here on behalf of a concerned friend.” Another pause, not breaking eye contact with his partner. His gaze felt like it was running Dean through; blue eyes shot icicles into his soul and pierced it -  _ why is he looking at me like that?  _ \- while Dean felt another woozy swoop and closed his eyes, trying to center himself by just holding on to the cold stone of the house.

“I don’t believe they’re here, Dean.”

“I think you’re right,” Dean agreed. He swallowed; his tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth.  _ What the hell is wrong with this place? _

“There is some structure south of here, shall we investigate?”

“Yep.” Dean nodded, opening his eyes and bracing himself. He could do this. He was a  _ federal agent _ , he’d been through endurance training, rigorous psychological testing, and a decade of intensive, stressful work. Surely a little witchcraft wasn’t going to be the thing to knock Dean Winchester on his ass.

He marched fervently off the cement porch and through the gravel. He could see what Cas was talking about; not far off, what looked like a house as well, but this one was white and looked ragged. The dirt road leading up to it was overgrown with sparse, spiny trees and bushes. Tumbleweeds and small thorns littered their path. It looked like nobody had been through in months, maybe years. 

Dean tried not to notice the way that Cas loomed over him, as though expecting him to fall. It was embarrassing. When they neared the structure, it was quite evident that someone was there - or, at least,  _ had been _ there. Music was blasting from somewhere in the house, and there was a motorcycle parked very near the front door. He glanced at Cas, who nodded and stepped forward to knock on the door. 

There was no answer for a few moments, so Cas knocked more loudly to be heard over the music.

At the second set of raps, there was an annoyed “Piss off!” from not too far inside: a man’s voice.

“Agents Stills and Winchester,” Cas said, ignoring the profanity, “We’re here for Ms. Summers. Nothing serious, just a courtesy call.”

“Ah yeah? FBI does those now, do they?” The voice was distinctly British.

Dean sighed and opened the door to the porch; there was no lock, and it swung open easily. Within the enclosed area was another door, presumably leading inside. He tried that one, but it  _ was _ locked.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, buddy!” He shouted, banging on the interior door himself.

“We said ‘no thank you’!” A woman’s voice called this time. They weren’t far, and Dean had half a mind to bust the tarnished old door down. It couldn’t take too much effort, judging by the cracks and warping in the wood.

“Your friends are real worried about you,” Dean called.

“For crying out loud.” The voice was much louder now, and the door swung open. There stood a pretty young blonde, doubtlessly no older than 17 or 18. The door led straight into the kitchen, and at an ugly, small table sat a man who looked to be at least 10 years her senior, peroxide bleached hair, sporting a cheap leather jacket and an obnoxious sneer. Dean knew, the moment he saw him, that he was going to punch him.

“Here I am,  _ agent _ . Happy?” The girl, presumably Buffy Summers, gave a tight-lipped smile. “Now, tell Giles I said leave us the hell alone!” She made to slam the door, but Dean braced his forearm against it.

He glanced at the floor and gave a small chuckle, before looking at her, head cocked. “‘Fraid it ain’t that simple, ma’am. See, he thinks your friend over there,” he gestured toward the guy at the table, probably the Spike character the librarian had mentioned, “may have coerced you somehow into hiding out here. They need you to come by, in person, to demonstrate your sound state of being.”

Buffy looked at Dean’s arm on the door, and she pulled it back open and stood straight to cross her arms. “In your own words, Agent, we can do this the  _ easy way _ or the  _ hard way _ . What’ll it be?”

Spike stood then, smirking and cracking his knuckles. “Y’know, love, haven’t had a good row in a bit. Wouldn’t mind the hard way, if I get a vote.”

“You don’t,” Buffy and Dean spoke the words in unison, and in unison they glared at each other. 

Dean took a deep breath, and said, “Look, we aren’t here to cause any trouble. Would you please, just…” He trailed off, squinting, when the girl’s necklace caught his eye. It looked...familiar.

“Hey, where did you get that?” He asked, pointing.

“At the ‘go away’ store, in the town of ‘mind your damn business.’ We finished?”

“No, actually we may have some questions to ask you about--”

“Good! G’bye!” She succeeded in slamming the door that time around. Dean clenched his jaw and turned just his head, glaring at Cas.

“No input, huh,  _ partner _ ?”

Cas squinted. “Do not be angry at me, Dean. This isn’t my doing.”

“We are going to need a better plan,” Dean relented. He swiped a hand over his tired, bloodied face. “Any ideas?”

“Did you see the charm she wore?” Cas asked, following Dean back off the porch.

“Yeah. Look familiar to you?”

“Indeed. It matched one of the symbols on our box from the crime scene in Liberal.”

“We can assume the book, too. You think?”

Cas nodded. “It is probably the charm that was referenced by her friends at the store. Dean, what if whatever this is,” he gestured vaguely to the air around them, and, oddly, Dean understood, “is connected to our murders?”

“What, thousands of miles away?”

“Why wouldn’t it be? If that librarian and this girl are connected, and we are connected to them through the book needed to translate our evidence--”

“Yeah yeah, I get it.” Dean waved his hand. “Ok, so what? We ask her nicely to borrow the necklace?”

“I’m afraid with this spell, whatever is going on here, we may need to be a bit more... _ forceful _ . You think it’s bad out here, inside of the house is a haze of magic and veils. You could, metaphorically, ‘cut the air with a knife’.”

“Great! So how in the hell are we supposed to break it?” Dean snapped his fingers. “I should call Sam. Maybe his new  _ witch _ buddy has some suggestions for us.”

“Do you really think that wise, Dean? I understand that Sam is assisting us, and I am grateful for the resource, but how much information should we be sharing about our predicaments and whereabouts?”

Dean bit his tongue for a moment, fighting off the strong urge to be  _ extremely _ offended by the insinuation that his brother may be some sort of villain. “Oh, you think Sam might, what, huh? Do something to get us in trouble? Blab?!” He pointed a finger. “Stills, I’ll admit I’m beginning to like you, but Sam’s family and that shit won’t fly with me, you got it,  _ partner _ ?”

“Dean, please, I did not mean anything by that, only that--”

“Yeah, only that you can’t display one goddamn modicum of trust. I know this whole FBI thing is new to you, but partners have each other’s backs, okay? All I’m asking is that you trust me how I’ve trusted you!”

“Dean, I’m not suggesting that your brother is potentially a problem.”

“No? Because it sure as hell sounded like--”

“Please, don’t take my words askew. I meant the witch, Dean. Nothing more.”

The witch? Dean’s blood felt like it was boiling. He swallowed, dryly, and scrubbed his face again. “What?”

“I mean that we don’t know the third party your brother is referencing. We would not want to compromise our investigation if there is something bigger going on, and we certainly don’t want to betray our current predicament or tip anyone off.”

Dean sighed, softly, and tried to center himself. Okay, so...Cas was right. And Dean was being a presumptuous dick. Again.  _ As usual. _ “Sorry. Okay, uh, let’s come up with a plan.”

Cas glanced back toward the house. “I may already have one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts! This property is a real place out in southern California, near where I grew up. I don't live in that area any longer (actually closer to Kansas City, where our heroes are stationed) but I've gone back to visit this place a few times. The cabin and the little house really exist! Someday I may even have pictures of them to share and I can link them here.  
> Anyway, huge thanks to anyone who is still reading this; I know it's slow-going, I'm just trying to find a balance here and write the best fiction I can. Happy Christmas/New Year, everyone!


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